Downward

in a depressed state now,
the language takes on a very different tone...

morbid pessimistic desolation
flowers black and blue
like the bruises missing
from a bottom too large to suit its captor...

black with death of hope and warmth
and blue like cold and painful numbness...

enter if you dare,
if you care,
to become aware,
of the lowest descending stairs,
deep down below ground-level nadir...

a depressed state,
a distressed fate,
only lasts within the moment,
but the moment grows and expands,
binds her hands,
maligns her plans...
takes its time with her mind,
to unravel, to unwind,

contentedness left behind...
happy cunt turned inside-out,
deafened by the horned snout
of devious doubt's shouts,

source unclear, source unknown,
source impossibly near, source truly her own...

internal revelations,
complications, and frustrations,

wishing for castration
of all sensation...

only moments own her,
in one she's freed,
only in the next to bleed
and then be overtaken by the need
for darkest, blackest, vilest paralysis of feeling, anesthesized and yet still squealing,
reeling in her coma,
still feeling all the pain even through the stroma,
begging for amputation of this papilloma,
consuming her entire s.oma,
the aroma of her own decay
she cannot allay...
and within this fray of her neurosis,
which she imagines is truly necrosis,
she knows is just colorful psychosis
gone astray and askew
taking on a new manifestation
within her central nervous location...