Jars (original poem version, 2nd revision)

As spider closes in,

wheels turn square;

call this the death of my hope (and)

my body's crazy dreams.

Turn the tap

to drain the cask,

but do not take,

is all I ask. 

In my belly: sharp and poison.

In my belly: poison'd stars.

How'd I earn these empty shoes I walk in?

By putting things in Jars.

Glass room (watching denial),

nobody's watching me now.

Noone, then, is laughing

at mother nature's clown.

I'm a loser, I'm a guy

who wanted to succumb

to an un-ending, lovely dream

of being bored and dumb.

In running away you altered me,

like a refugee fleeing.

Your love was like a burning blurry thing

that was just beyond my seeing.

In my BELLY: sharp and poison,

deep beneath (these) burning stars.

All I've learnt are empty lessons

from things I've kept in JARS.

My knife wields my psyche

(it whispers, in my secret inner ear,

two ways of departing

all I've collected here).

All the stars have burn'd up,

all the hate has been relieved.

The sky of my stomach is ablaze no more -

for all have disbelieved...

in Jars.