• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 10
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Like a tattoo, a touch sinks deep into the skin,
Seeping downwards, trickling past each layer,
The blackness inside calling, crawling, from within,
It is hard to adjust, hard to grasp an answer in a prayer.
No preparation, nothing to cling to for support,
Alone we must go to discover something we thought was lost,
Residual desperation lurks, in anger and fear we wish to abort,
Tenacious emotions strip bare weaknesses at any cost.

Thoughts work like arrows, or a dagger, or a spear,
Incessantly driving a sharpness into the soul.
Looking now it all appears to be so clear,
The mind is a judge, sentencing us to an inescapable hole,
Climbing, clambering, exhausted in toil we adhere,
Until something is found to fill the emptiness, take its toll.
Something bright, something strong, something dear,
Completing the puzzle, from which a piece the melancholy stole.

It is as shocking and crisp as a perfectly moulded snowflake,
Little compares to the uniqueness of the experience.
Recklessly bounding, it overwhelms the senses, startled awake
Hard to describe and little is known of its essence,
A vulture feasting on carrion for its own sake.
Ignored, it ignites its prey, begging for acquiescence.
Calling into a void, patiently waiting for something to break,
Yet it thrives through the tumultuous affair with iridescence.



Acceptance is the key of which the faint-hearted hold,
Loneliness cannot be bartered with, strenuous to shed,
A deception blurred amongst colour, remaining to unfold.
It is not until a separation between reality and the head,
Can a flower be allowed to bloom, and vanity turns into gold.
Thus it becomes a noble deed to be a martyr for the misread,
Hearing but misunderstanding the truth from the lies told,
It is much easier to cover wounds than accept where once you bled.