You got me when high
Which is to strike low
Thought I was rid of
Turned out Hell no
Poison in the inkwell
Culling compassion
A vase of glass roses
Thrown with forceful abandon
On jagged rocks
Cut just for the reason
Sense and sensibility shredded
Beyond meaningful recognition
All as I fought to glow
And had at last won
Some sort of flow
So . . .
A possible final blow
A tarnish that this time
Might have the might to
Lay me six-feet low

Thoughts on this time last year. With thanks to 은 하 for use of the header image. 

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