Blue oceans bleed into my crystalline sighs,
my broken mind, theorizing, trying, in one way or another to realize,
why I can’t hope to discover what has always lurked behind an ephemeral, omnipotent shadow of my conscience.
My brain is confused. Stalwart mountains brave the fierce winds of my sorrow,
mental barriers put in place to protect, defend, entrench, encapsulate, enslave;
stuck in a constant feedback loop of ragged exhales and rushed inbreaths.
I often fear myself. Frozen slate I cover myself in grinds my resolve to a shriveled,
desolate wasteland of an empty mask;
the pressure reforms my ideals to conform with societal point of view as my hair is torn to shreds
and my body grows malnourished and thin.
I’m not always the only one I need to impress. Clawing at the abyssal depths of a wretched victory,
lifted high above on a pedestal made of rose thorns,
stained red from my callused feet, ever running, ever trying in vain to fly.
I fail more than I’d like to admit. The scythe falls ever closer, and I am part of its deadly harvest, made to be used and forever forgotten, burned in an oven or thrown to oxen of time; will the water wheel screech to a halt and refuse to dance with its partner.
Death terrifies me. And in the deafening cacophony of a thousand silences, I am cut off by my own conscience as I try to get out the last—…