White Chalk

At the limit of my sobriety,
Removal of simple variety,
I can hear the bells faintly in the distance.
Entertaining the Reaper at the final instance.

I fight to contain the corruption within.
Begging for the mercy from those I sin.
Ding dong, the boat floats across the River Styx.
Ding dong, it has now arrived just for sad kicks.

Swallowing and drowning in shallow sorrow,
Hoping I'll get pulled out for air tomorrow,
Hacks and slashes mark my tattered self.
As I return the tools of labor to the wooden shelf.

Wretched Adams pay for their own Hell.
Yet these days I can only hear the same bell.
While I sit here and do nothing but talk,
Others happily proclaim love in white chalk.