Decay...

Your silence salts my mental storms,
rusting that fist of neurocratic rule,
eroding those dreams from granite to dust,
guaranteed by romantic momentum.

The heart is its own excuse,
phasing out everything of use,
tightening all that's loose,
the smooth fibers of the descending noose.

Will I aim my head for the center
climb to the scaffold above
swing and release into the crowd
or treat it as a wick to light?

But ashes would only turn to cement
causing me to rage and lament
while stuck in the grave that time rent
leaving my reserved energy spent

How I hate this life long distraction,
blurring the contrast between fire and fuel,
this wedge dividing my already rotten stump-
I'll fix this problem twelve ounces at a time.