I have been crawling for countless days now.
Where has the world gone?
Days are becoming grim years
And grim years are becoming aeons of rot.
As I rest my face in my filthy hands
lassitude cripples my tired frame.
This long road is coming to an end.
I am returning to the oldest place I know
A swamp at the far end of the earth,
choked with the vilest of all things.
The perfect place to die.
The stench of humility will be all that welcomes me
back into the mire of this fetid hellhole.
I am tired of total failure.
I am afraid of a dismal future
This swamp
will reduce
my life
to carrion.
This is
the epicenter
of my
death.