Sometimes I wander down that cobbled hill,

and think myself like it’s namesake,

my mind a storm, thoughts ground in a mill,

ground coarse to salt my wounds, still I can’t shake,

the thought that I’d like to throw my head,

upon the stone steps jagged edge.

I Wonder what I’d feel first? Penance in Pain?

Silence in Sleep? Either way I stand to gain,

For when I think myself to be that Saint,

I think of vanquishing that serpentine taint,

and bringing my suffering sword down upon it’s crown,

letting it constrict me, drag me asunder till we drown.

This great snake encircles my world,

whispers in laughter and cutting noise,

making my head wince and recoil,

till I’m safe and alone, into myself curled,

without masquerade nor charisma nor poise,

I bury myself in blankets as it were the earth.