My body is a temple and I have littered its halls with garbage. My body is a temple and I’ve tapestried its walls with tales of precious Intimacy’s carnage, the fresh memories of romances, friendship, religion, all those chances I let slip with their derision like the smell of burning trash, and as a cross on my forehead’s the subsequent ash. The familiar tribe of glum bums, beggars and gypsies at my doorstep receive no warm welcomes. I’ve decided instead to shy away into the wine cellars, slowly picking apart the small bits of me that mattered till they’re all but torn and tattered in my head. My body is a temple but I shan’t live past fifty— O death would be a gift to me. My body is a temple and I the bug-eyed jester, the lard bard victim of life’s molester. Hope’s as useful as the dingy cobwebs strung throughout my brain fibers, growing immense from catching the dandruff of dread imbibers like me in our decadence are bound. My body is a temple and I the fool holding the match to burn it to the ground.
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