I stand upon a shattered scene, the brink of scattered ruin and scathing dreams.
I stand upon a shattered scene, the brink of loss, the brink of rage, the edge of sorrow, the ending of an age.
I stand upon a shattered scene, the brink has came and went, the edge a distant thing. Scattered screams and horrid dreams fill a mind of sorrow, scattered screams and horrid dreams build upon that shattered scene, that once stood upon the brink of life.
It all tips, upended and over, into the dark beyond, into the end of the wretched mirage.
There is an image in my head that sears my blood and veins. It colors my thoughts as it shadows my words and bubbles to the surface but never to close. I seek this image in all I do but it never is clear it never shows through.
Again, again again again again.
Never showing, never clearing I can’t let it go, I have no choice in this I have to find the thought, that one I think I forgot.
Seeking, seeking, seeking
Searching for this story this one thing that lets me be. It’s the meaning of all I am and it’s bloody red and death’s good friend yet I know not what it is and I’ve found it all but once. Never finding it again.
I look upon a shattered mirror, burned and blackened home. I see a weeping form, a cold and woeful soul.
I reach out to touch them, to lend a helping hand, but jagged edges tear my flesh, and turn me back again.
I look upon my weeping form, in that blackened mirror, I have tried so long to help myself, that I forgot what it was I fear.
I hold my tattered hand, against my heaving chest as I feel the tears form once more and see myself again. Reaching through that blackened to start the cycle anew, as every time I try to help myself I just rend myself in two.
Fear keeps me here as my form breaks away. My shattered self falls apart as my mind fails to stay. A soul unable to cope, a mind filled with screams.
My arms wrapped around my form, clinging so tight I might break if only to stop myself from fading away.
Falling into the black, those unceasing static screams, I’d rather cling to myself until I crack rather than let that take the rest of me.
This dark dreaming is all that remains apart from static dreaming and dripping clinging fear, I’ll cling to cruelty rather than risk oblivion and so I stay, huddled close, alone and away just outside that darkly flowing static screaming that threatens my form and shatters my mind just repeating and unrelenting the screaming just behind my eyes.
I see upon the twisting smoke the source of darkling dreams.
Awkward angry figures that do naught but writhe and scream.
I see upon the twisting smoke an image of my soul, clouded and ephemeral, tattered and alone.
Cracking creaking and suffering more, I see no reason, no reason at all as to why I hurt ever more.
The cracking and creaking and ever leaking form suffers and suffers ever more, though the pain shows not on my fading form.
It’s locked inside with these screams of mine as this cracking and creaking mind of mine breaks and shatters more and more, like a hammer to glass my soul falls apart and I hear it cracking and creaking and shattering more.
I wrap my arms around my self, to hold myself together, and simply scream in silent pleas “No more, no more.”
With in my heart I feel a twinge, a sharp breaking, a strange unmaking as I cease to be again. A strange fading, this odd unmaking, as that cold settle in. It travels my bones, though I know they’re not old, and it stifles that fire of mine.
My furnace runs dark, the forge now unlit, if only, if only I had a steady hand and a friendly face, someone to hold the flame and tend that fire while I travel through, too often mind you, that cold and dark place.
Still I strike the flint alone, I shovel the coals and sweat alone as I travel through that dark place and mind my fire alone; to keep it lit and keep me warm and as a reminder that even in that dark place, that empty cavern of mine, even there the sun does rise and light does still exist.
If only I could find my way through it’s labyrinthine depths to a place in open air to see the sun light anew, if only I had a friend with a steady hand to hold my own, perhaps then this darkened place wouldn’t be such a task to make it through.
Still I toil away, with this guttering fire and this dying flame, if only for a hope, that tiny dream of mine, to leave this maze, this endless cave that holds nothing but screams and sorrow to see that glorious day, to see the dawn breaking and remember anew, I’m still alive and I’ve yet more to do.