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Existing in sin,
If that’s what existing is.
For nothing equals to this,
Terminal madness of the hedonist.

Go ahead and blind these eyes,
Please plug these ears,
But don’t ever steal the tactile Shangri-La.

Feelings shared like a needle-drug-stupor,
Infecting with the high of co-existence.
The only real proof that life exists,
Grasping in fervor, the fleeting succulence.

Attempt to bind these hands,
Snip off these pitiful fingers—
The barrows don’t call quite yet.
This bull-rush of life stays achingly sweet,
Agonizingly attempting to shackle thee.

Every Jack Be Nimble moment burns me,
The wick of being smolders rapturously.

To when dust coats my bones,
Reclaims me in Gaea’s furious finality…
Time will scythe us all down when it will,
Yet every thread of this lifeline shall be cherished,
For Fate’s shear knows no true affection.