The taste
Is bitter sweet.
The irony
Is a joke in itself.
If nothing be wasted,
Then what has become
Of this?
You choke
On the seeds of your choices.
The scars
Remain on your skin.
Like a disease.
The life-giving blood
Is drained,
Now giving death.
And all that is left
Is controlled folly.
But what folly
Can be found
In the cold dead eyes
Of an other?
