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STITCHES
by DAMAGODDESS
Shattered nothings, fumbling in the dark for the chaotic pieces of their yesterday.
Answers dance in the shiftless void, waiting to be chained to reason.
Syncophantic fissures consume them, feeding on their twisted web of fate.
Pieces of the whole, bound in a million different broken promises.
The body succumbs with ease, desire the primal scream to which attaches no cognition.
Clawing fiercely from the undertow, drowning in the rhythm of being taken.
Anything for oblivion, for a moment's reprieve from the weight of the pain, the burden of the broken.
Serenity is a distant dream, so the fallen take their solace in the turbulence.
The mind resists the body's urging, begging to be left within its hell.
Tortured genius is no pretty companion; she is a cruel Mistress with a heavy hand.
Monsters born in countless waking nightmares, mutilating the synapses with greedy fangs,
Making it weep blood and vomit agony and succor on the hopes of impossibility.
The heart strains against the manacles binding it to the hurt, decimating blindly.
Unable to capitulate to all the doubts that hold it in thrall, the throb fades to shadow.
Lost and terrified, it echoes across the resonating chasm of annihilation.
Balanced upon the precipice of doubt, entreating the myth of fancy, it anticipates the fall.
The soul remains, stoic and immutable, firm in its convictions of falsehood; it simply is.
Forged in the incandescent fires of betrayal, hammered in an appalling cadence of deep wounds,
The scorching intake it longs for subordinate to years of indifference shot into waiting veins.
Its matchless paroxysms do not suffer it to deliverance, not in this season.
It is inconsequential, the winding thread that sews this mess of a being together,
Within the greater scheme of cosmic concerns and nothingness, it is but stitches, really,
A precarious strand of one emotion, one infantesimile beat of a heart that is pure,
A silk in Lachesis' tangled skein, but it breathes life. The ability to love. And to accept.
It sustains.
