Disquietude of Hope

I've been evolved into a tormenting woe,
across the brooding at night, I'm smoking the gloom,
of an unsealing wound, that is dwelling around.

Former faults are not meant to be repaired,
life puts you over the depths of the abyss and hell,
to never forsake self hate, to infringe your despair.

And if we bet on conceptions of faith or fate,
at last the human condition will reign:

because no God lies within wolves,
to solve and help mortal aims.

Finally the consummation of smooth flock air
inside my lungs, it desecrates and shades
my veins unto the gray, and a silly rage.

The pain shall always be the phantom,
of my intended poetry, to express an anthem:
of putrid ideas, which are not sanctum.​

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