(Untitled/ Integrated)

The thick grey air, 

Which is not a haze,
Hangs there between me
And all that I see.

Like a defect
In the eye itself,
It cannot be cleaned,
Can't be avoided.

The droning voice,
It is in my head.
Though it can't be found,
It is always 'round.

The necrosis
That is in my brain,
Chips away at me
With its dismal glee.

But not as fast,
As the lethalness
That seeps into me;
That I cannot flee.
All around me
The vapid chatter,
Speaking of nothing,
Thinks it's everything....