iconography
twisted in the dank pit of my stomach
where the grass never grows
and my hopes go to die
there lies a gnarled throne
worriment rules there
her scepter trembling in hand
eager to expand her empire
over the wasteland occupying
my decaying external form
untangling remains impossible
her hands linger over my sickly skin
a marionette for her entertainment
begging to be set free