July’s heat is cruel and wild,
a fevered breath, both dark and vile.
The earth yawns wide, the chasm deep,
where hell’s foul winds begin to creep.

The past clings tight upon my back,
a wretched bird, its feathers black.
With tattered wings and flesh that weeps,
a leper lost in shadows’ keep.

Prometheus would bow to this burden dire;
I’d rather be bound with him in fire,
chained to that rock, forsaken, grim.
Turns thirty-two, with fate so dim.

Lied my dear, no blue in the sea,
No joy, no cheer—just shadows flee,
My birthday’s not a feast, but doom,
A silent death in a darkest room.

The very day I was born,
when air kissed my lungs,
I tasted life’s in his sweetest form— 
then came the rot and a poison stung.