I am,
i am tired:
of life,
of lungs, breathing in the reeks of ignominy,
of opprobrious chatters polished so shiny,
of its hidden calamity.
I am,
I am a lump of frail flesh, enthralled by the suits and ties, and the lies.
Hands slipped under my skin, i am a trophy to win.
I am a zenith of rage. Basking in the rays of vengeance, i have been forged, dented, molded. An evil ascends.
I am, i am.
I am nadir,
I am shadow,
I am an end.
