Impending Gloom.

As someones loses himself to the deep thronged infection,
of pain and love, alike.
Pulling at your heart.
Burning incense, in a gleeful discretion,
you settle down to,
staying all apart.
Your hand, ceases to move, the cuts are too deep.
The feet point outwardly,
losing any chance of a recourse.
Your head just starts to spin,
leaving aside,
all chances to recoil, restart and rewind.
The ceedee player plays,
until exhausted of all its powers.
The sex games played,
help to tie you down.
The house is a mess, the bedsheets stained,
cigarette buds on the floor.
All you need is some warmth,
nowhere to be found,
to shield you from the increasing cold,
that consumes you, all right.
You smoke some more, but obviously,
unaware of the staunch disease.
Your body answers without a slight movement,
slowly lying low.
Slowly going back and coming in again.
I'm not sure you will survive, though.