Sickened lay the state, he asked himself,
Throwing his arms around his throat,
Roped in his fingers, twisting shut.
Had he not the sense to bend himself,
Around the pillow to breathe,
And ease a free from insanity,
He needed to be alone.
Breathing away those bad days,
With shades of hazed memories,
He had to stop the sounds.
Bed bound and sick in throat,
Noting that the effects had worn,
A little too cruelly for his mind.
Behind these days, he put away,
A reminder enscarred to place his hand,
Around the vicinity far from his neck.
Beckoning a change in his eyes,
He sighed at his wasted night,
Vowing not to try again.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime writer. He lives in Glasgow, having written from the perspective from Cork, Madrid and Prague. He has written for OutlawPoetry, VadaMagazine and FromTheLighthouse.