, , ,

I heard that echo again, that voice
like guttural molasses, a vehement envy
mind driven and remiss but lost
in this swell that is the empty echo
I hear each night like the wind in the curtain
or the destruction made in paces, 
boots beat upon the earth 
and life is trodden beneath our soles
that violent promise of your own corruption
leaving me to dine on your bitter spirit
while my mind is left to dust, left to die
alone to conclude you've done nothing for me
but create these echoes which haunt me
condemn me and enflame my final fragments
of existence, lost without your jealousy
and the juice of your conviction
when I surmise it is only your pride
that burns me alive