I wrote this a while back and have just re-visited it.
I drowned in five rivers, each one at my fingertip, stipend wit.
I felt rage at each damp page, my words revolving into a rampage.
The beginning of my sin ended in Phlegethon, seared skin speared in sorrow—Acheron
Reaching out limits at Cocytus, laminated by peels of lemon, to falsify the scent of the parched yet soaked skin, to satisfy lethally legalized weapons of mass, masculine ass, Lethe, please leave a message of peace behind, a mythological yet illogically divine, support the troops, support the pores, sport the poor, sport the moor, report demure, forgot to lock the doors behind, blame it on Alzheimer.
I experience an enigmatic catharsis, as I lay in Styx, syntax diluted, arsis’ secluded concentrated by pity, pity my petulant cries, pity my peasant rhyme, pity my palms inches away from my fingertips, clipped my body stripped, dipped into five rivers till I drowned.