The Reaper

And there is nothing I can say,
But that this is. These words,
Their very existence are the necessary bleed for some kind of cure.
This rage that you have opened in me,
This bile that has consumed me and struck you twice,
Clouded with wine and frustration,
You tearing at my flesh in retaliation and pleasure.

I am consumed.
Sapped and drained like this human scum,
Draped across what branches I've scavenged with my inadequate claw,
So far downstream,
Daydreaming too long.

I've met these rapids unprepared,
Caused this turbulence,
From afar in ignorance to be sure.
And this bitter effect comes now,
At this dawning day in all its stinging reality,
The one which would always be tomorrow.