#2,427 Descent

Jung’s tree drills laggy roots –
it reaches slow to hell [it is a
price heaven charges on our
souls] – such bitterness rips –
we dig deep our wells to sip
rare draughts of untouched
waters – nowt [now] is new –
our pleasures carry weights
& sin is our last delight – less
gods remain down here [my
own left me to drown] – was
there ever an honest day in
my eight [plus] thousand of
rectitude? We’ll not muster
at Heaven’s Gate – instead a
descent – into infinite holes