Ideation

I would extend a hand,

but you would pull me under.

Drown with you.

Die with you.

Take me to deep places

and make me measure hours

by the ticking of a doomsday clock:

End of time.

Out of rhyme.

Oh we are in a state, my friend.

Race to the bottom.

Race against time.

Patrons, a host of demons

who spread a bitter feast

where we dine upon delusion

and nibble tender mercies

salted with madness.

Fight your way out.
Fly away home,
but mud still clings to your wings,
pulling you back. 
We can't all get out alive.

Now I spend my days

under a cloud of I know why.

But still I understand,

and I say with all humility:

I have not sinned.

There can be no rescue

for those who wish to drown.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.