Hierophant (poem)

Mrs. James Bond,

     I don't know why

          but I don't expect you to talk

I expect you to die.

For you've already survived

a thousand micro-suicides.    

Cronus is not on your side,

     you cannot cross 

          this Bridge of Sighs,

     you're affiliated with The Lord of Flies 

     more than caffeinated with all that lies

beneath your cross moon. 

Standing underneath your bedroom window

they've watched the glow

go right out from your eyes

it's distinctly extinguished

anguish now occupies;

psychosis, leaks from the sides.

All your ride or die bitches

go on their own rides,

leaving you behind

with your ever growing paranoia

even the stars will soon disown ya,

'cause you can't prioritize and you can't mature

and every thing you say has the substance of manure

but the worst thing about your use

is watching the self-abuse.   

So as the buzz saw spins, she too late begins

to understand that the traphouse always wins.

The bottom below her is not soft

The bottom below her is a goddamn rock

and when she hits, she'll land a Pollock

Sure, she's comorbid

completely unstable 

reality's a fleeting feeble fable 

But what of the murderers who

enable, 

enable, 

enable?