Insane devotion to my impending death

Твоя Шизофрения
Autumn has sown an early maturing sorrow.
The seeds grow in my soul.
And, though my ribs are covered with rust
the only thing remaining is blind trust.

With insane devotion to my impending death...
I will stop my breath…

I hear the broken piano inside my head...
Why do I feel like I'm dead?
I hide my last nightmare
in an empty envelope.
Reality twists around my neck,
a suffocating rope.

Bluish clouds look like dead pets...
Heaven suffers from carmine sunsets,
as I do from morbid injuries...
For now my poems are buried in these diaries.

Autumn wipes a teardrop from my face —
a raindrop falls on foliage lace.
A bird of prey pecks lifeless flesh and gore,
and now I know... There is no hope.

My thoughts drowns in a symphony of rustling leaves —
The wind cries to the rhythm of my heartbeats.
Painful late-autumn memories            
like chains encircle my broken wrists.

Around my neck, the suffocating rope...
I breathe no more... I choke...

When the opaque darkness has settled inside
I‘ll give up...I will not fight...
I‘ll hear no more my silent heart,
my life, grown useless, thrown aside.               

The evening mists like pale ghosts,
the trees no longer hide their naked souls.
With insane devotion to my impending death —
I stop my breath.


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Thanks to Johnny Longfellow for helping with the editing.