As the jocund seconds flow
through a sunken brine to an air rotten
dark, amort and long-forgotten
and I yearn to be tainted beneath mellow blue
till none could catch a sound anymore
till none could seek to heed the score.
I must soon leave this baneful grave
haunted by a more enduring sillage
that delights at wreckage before age
Hence, I flee from which no armor can save
till my heart could cease to ache
till my lungs could respire with no shake.
The odor, the herald of a lethal trap
cold and yet ethereal; it draws in every vestige
beacon’d in my pyre, paves way to its own prestige
Swiftly, it feeds upon my breath; what a solicitous mishap!
till I affy by its mighty side
till I stand its fatal stroke and abide.