my nights are a rough woven blanket
of existential blackened dread
unbidden thought(s)
powered by a racing heart
plot against me in my head
no solace is gained
no recharge
no rest
skirting another void
token test
broken jest
i can’t feel
i can’t give
i can’t breathe
i can’t live
and yet the answers i seek
are for questions i don’t know
somewhere
within all these secrets
are things i will never show
somewhere
in the midst of this mess
a bated breath wait, it lies
behind a futile pillow fluff
between the gaps in my sighs
i don’t dream
i don’t fly
i don't scream
i don’t die
a self-inflicted paralysis
hampers any and all
form of forward progression
cold comfort
becomes
old comfort
and that
in turn
becomes
none at all
About the Creator
Bren
“I know what I mean it to be and respect that someone else may read something entirely different.”
Centre Stage with the wonderful Heather Hubler
Swan
“During the Metal Age, humans took photographs of everything beautiful, which was everything, yet machines did not even wear shoes. The Fauxna thought of a better way. They colored all of the light rose, for a corrupted source cannot be verified.” - Origin Parable, 011
By Nicky Frankly5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Always catchy and relatable! Hope you are travelling alright and had a relaxing easter break Brendan.