In one’s mess, we sit proudly,
Looking at all that we have.
“Isn’t it all so lovely?!”
“Oh, I am so glad to have!”
Musing over it all one loses self,
One loses life,
One loses the will to be held,
One loses the will to strive.
An obsessed mess is what it is,
Stuffed into all corners of the soul.
As one marvels at their stockpile,
They fail to notice doom – the black hole.
All consuming the gravity of it all,
As one begins to fight to hold on.
Deeper and deeper the pull becomes,
Until no light can ever leave these catacombs.