apo[calyptic]{plectic}

[childisgone]

i come so close to succombing, comatose,
morose with defeat, a discreet overdose,
sans the disco glamour, yet i self-diagnose
with grandiose doses and we clamor to be neatly
yet grossly replete, enamored completely by this
sweet little treat of the deceit we indulge
with each passing beat... we retreat into
the lives that seem incomplete, yet masquerade
our behavior as though we're elite, parading
with smiles although we're deplete of that
something, that anything, that we prayed
we could meet. we are afraid to repeat the
lives we've delayed, the ones we degrade
a senseless charade, shaded gray and decayed,
invaded by cancer, weighed down by a sense
that i cannot dissaude this body from fading
and black will pervade... eyes closed, laid
to rest, i greet the cascade of the darkness
i no longer feel the need to evade;
debts paid, game played, i bade a good night
[you braided our fingers and held me so tight,
traded your tears as i gave up the fight-
and stayed just to know that i made it alright]
amore.