The time to breathe is nigh!

We are the stuff of unknown.

Embattled in and out of the years.

I’ll embrace you.

Denounce you.

Sing to you under harvest moons with swollen tongues and dreary eyes.

I look at my hands and sigh heavily.

They’ve purged through an unfiltered world…endlessly.

Is this permanent?

Those cold shivers that run through us are the ghosts of our pasts.

Reminding us of our mortality.

And of our failed endeavors.

These tears belong on your mantle.

Your most precious award.

These walls are grey.

And I don’t want to leave their cold comfort.

I trace the cracks and crevices with an easiness serene.

With confidence I fall within and fill my somberness with relief.

I can hear a choir in my soul.

A haphazard romp of solidarity and uneasiness all at once.

Tender yet chilling.

A sound I’ve heard before.

And then I remembered what my screams sounded like.

As the bloody bath water swirled down the drain and into oblivion.

Defeatism defined.

– 1985 AD


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