The Week Defined in Darker Skies

From the first timid time I dared to lift my eye lids from over the two cold orbs I use to see, all demonic potential of a world heavy loaded with meticulously detailed pain extended as far as my cursed sight doth see

All a storm has passed this way, a merry hell to rain down in callous hail upon all this civilly constructed shell so fragile by every timid crack that screamingly outlines every faulted thing huddling within

No shelter stays whole or defence remains in ways to be even loosely defined as a working thing, when all fire rages wildly with wilfully consuming chaos through my besieged fragment of nothingness value labelled only as my calm

Eyes see apparitions of future pain through the poison lens of a crimson stain as the path before disintegrates so purposely slowly, as if a cruelly picking god were to be laughingly knocking each stone down in corrupted joy before the eyes of tortured souls

Blades meet flesh and suffering marks it in reddened streaks lashed across the skin, no angels here to heal a demon’s ills with enlightened tones of forgiveness prayer, only thanklessly begging mercy calling for their pitted existences to be saved

So fate creepingly crawls with derisorily drawn out cries to defect to places where I dare not tread, steps heavy laden with a past’s regret do doggedly claw to bring me back to whence sorrow’s crop have chokingly seized every fibre of hope

And all such horrific visions of misspent awfulness instilled in those seven eternities of twenty four hours of waking hell, sleep as damned as when I wake to see a freshly laid burden to pitilessly whip my only fractured fragment of brightness to have made it out, traumatised and broke

So from the first time the night with cruelty sluggishly draws the curtain on that fair day of all a dystopian nightmare would weep to feel, I must hope not the dwelling memories of what misery I write will persist to remind me that I await it all with the dawn sentence of fresh light

 

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