Salt Poem by Matthew Boisjolie

Psychotic fantasies fancy themselves,
I left the door open all night,
Beefing up the engine without the airframe,
Quietly the drops hit the floor,
pitting the cement that was dormant for so long,
after the hospitals, the rest fell in place,
spelling my name with capitals,
you cant be clear yet discrete,
seems like the faster i fight, the faster i fall,
the integrity of the holy shrine,
the ultimate strength of the waste that is left,
forsaken forgiveness is fathomable,
can i find out what you want?
you can tell me how far,
I already know where i am,
Im better than when im not,
as time goes, you can,
im without a stage,
falling to walk,
but out of your way, ill paint myself out,
if that's what you want, you can pour salt on my wounds!