In This Mind

I’m right. I think

like this grinding ill

I find I’m in.

It’s this silly mind

I’m in; blinding crisis

binding criticism.

Diminishing in dignity- it’s simply dispiriting.

I didn’t flinch in finding this;

I didn’t fix this girl I’m in

I lift grimly, hiding it.

I’d hitch- it is illicit,

This inky pitch I’m swimming in.

It isn’t iridic,

It is infinity.

Infinity which is killing this lilting

sickly lyricist.

This split wrist is

spilt twilight, whilst

this trill still sings

in dizzy winds,

writhing in this wilting

wintry wish