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What are you waiting for?
Acrimonious and fragmented is this day
Mislaid and secluded is thy love
From the pitcher of sorrow I drink the liquid of my slow death. It pours through my soul, drenches my inner most anatomy and quiches my thirst for things unlawful and just. It puts out the flames that dance wildly under the light of my growing desire to love what is bad.
But that desire whispers…..yes, it whispers every so softly. Speaking profusely and singing soothing lullabies. My heart groans and becomes heavy with in my ribs….sinking
Sinking me down further in to the bouts of my dark depression; drowning me in the waters of my darkest hour. Even the sun’s brightest dawn has no light strong enough to pierce the veil of this ironclad obscurity. It’s cold…
….Cold to the very bones of my skeleton; freezing my happiness in the chill of the winds, blowing in all directions and spinning me about.
I slide down that wall of nothingness and pull my knees to my chest, clinging on to the warmth….indeed that precious warmth that churns my blood in its veins. I hold my arms about my person like a wool coat; like a mother protecting her child from the elements.
I dwell here in this place and wonder through my thoughts of suicidal tenacities and audacities. And I wait for hope to fall upon me and clothe me for this weather.
Until that day….
Look upon these dejected eyes and see a tale of woe.
Feast your eyes upon my scared flesh and see history of wars old and new
Read my lips and listen as I keep telling you so.
My future seems dim, and all my nightmares are coming true.
