The Cult of Apathy

Press, puncture, pain,
Slide, drag, tear,
Flesh opened as a lane,
Blood flowing in crimson glare.

Shudder, gasp, shake,
Drip, drop, pool,
As again the flesh is raked,
Ruby drops on the floor cool.

Ache, angst, agony,
Whisper, weep, worship,
Yes worship one who will never see,
The bleeding adoration in every blades slip.

Despair deepening drives,
The burning, blistering, and bleeding,
And even many to end their lives,
Poised by sorrows serpentine sting.

Hearts bleed easily,
And life too precious to be,
Thrown away so carelessly,
But how few will see,
Till 'tis to late for sorry,
The flow is to free,
Unable to be stymied with such paltry gauss,
Death an outcome, and the cause?
'Tis the Cult of Apathy.

Sundial of Self

Wounds can’t be made to heal,
If you will not deal,
With this masochistic sundial,
You’ve made yourself all this while,
To keep the time,
In a life not worth a dime.

A sundial made from the shade,
Cast by this blade,
Still sheathed in your back,
As your blood courses a well caked track,
From wound to this cesspool you’ve waded,
Ever since you let your life become jaded.
Pull this blade from your spine,
It is no friend of thine.
There is nothing you may gain,
If you do not separate twain.
Yes, this ancient wound was real,
But your long past due to heal.
Do not, friend, be a fool,
And wallow any longer in this pool,
Of self-loathing,
And specious spites sting.
Pull out this knife!
Get back your life!
Wounds will heal,
Infections purge, and rents seal,
If you remove the cause,
And don’t forever pause,
With enmity seeping into marrow,
Loosing all hope of tomorrow.
Even scars eventually fade,
Please pull out this blade,
Do not let your life be jade,
And live as but a shade,
Forever weak and forever staid,
Heal, and see what, of life, might be made.