darkened squalor-
criss crossed and dirty;
these walls are lined
with your filth,
with your hatred and pain…
what can cure a heart of such
wretchedness-
of such unsanitary condition-
when you locked the door so long ago
and ate the key in your selfishness?

now bloated and rotting this chest
of mine waits for some divine
locksmith to find me
hiding within the stench
of your hatred
to release the vile hold
your disease has had over me