Carcass.

[rewiiired]

Mind has eyes
but the heart has the reigns
as secrets suffocate,

as answered, re-answered questions hang in wait
for that one impossible alternative explanation,
trying to wish away what you need
to be a house of cards but know
to be a wall of facts.

And so gray matter juggles far above
the drummer in the cage
that forever remains soft putty tight in her grips.
Whistling, she kneads in time,
as if playing some strange sort
of pliable instrument.

Invisible arm shoulder-deep in your urethra
delicate, phantom fingers
worming up to enact a Muppet routine
all as your eyes roll back, drunk on euphoria,
warm and lost in the lips
wrapped around the below.

White knuckles of yours, hot and tight on a dream
though you can clearly catch its scent of decay,
knowing full well no hope is left for resuscitation here.

Best to let it go up in flames,
watch it burn to the ground, bear the smoke,
utter a battlecry beneath a rain
of blood and tears.

All this you confess.
You know in this dead horse
you've worn a hell of a foothold.

Yet toes swing back,
slamming into the carcass deeper still,
the maze around you thickening
as you stand strangled in strategic lies
knowing you lost the war at square one
yet still unwilling to give up a fight.

Or willing, but incapable as her inebriating affects
continue to weaken you.

All this you confess, angry,
confused at the logic lost to behavior.
Equating her with the drug,
weighing wealth of soberness
against the piercing pangs of withdrawal.