Untitled (My blood, in all its inky glory)

My blood, in all its inky glory,
whether through key or nib, and no matter its colour
⏤either grey-black or deep red⏤
could never be my suicide note,
the ending of my unique foundation,
even as I look upon the murky green water
with a fondness,
as if it’s an old friend
calling me home,
and question why
I ever moved to this strange land
with its delusions of propriety
and hearts locked away
by ancient keys,
passions of the ties that bind
nowhere to be found
in the mud at the shore
during low tide
amongst bottles of cheap beer
and cheap wine
and the other ways
the fallen empire
has chosen to cope
with the condition
that begets it all,
the curse, the curse,
that we are forsaken by,
the shadow
that lurks around every corner,
waiting to strike,
and will get us all in the end⏤
that life has always been too short,
and love has always been too long,
even when the sun never sets.