Haunted by the ghost of what I am to become


To be pursued by shadows of a life less lived and a wholly consuming black hole

Such forces of bleak perspective that seep into a singular moment, a stain as resilient as the cursed existence that perpetuates the original mark

No matter how many times you bleach your mind with emotional poison, the blood runs deep from within the mortal wound to recreate the cursed stain

There is a cure, the one that whispered sweet nothingness in sweetly seductive tones on a dark winters night, in a car park I am lucky enough to have left alive

The reason my tears are withheld and moistness around my cold dead eyes is all I ever generate, the poisonous tome of repression that conceals my emotions with hallowed strength

The need for escape is ever great, a path of blissful disillusion that leads to edge of a cliff, powerful enough to keep you on a layer of air when you have already over stepped

Is it fear of the fall or a knowledge of what’s below, that keeps this knowing dead afloat

Answers as damning as the questions my depressive mind fatally creates, a logic as twistedly genius as the notion that the forces which seek my death are the ones I weald in my defence

The finality of death which steals from us all that we still could make, something that as much as I fear, also poses the ultimate release

As I stand upon the cliff, torturously waiting for the reveal… of which way I will fall, into the saving arms of salvation or the jagged reefs that for years I have sharpened with ever fated act


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