Not my strongest piece, obviously. This is just me finding some semblance of dark lucidity after a while of cloudy wishful thinking. Sometimes the comfortable certainty of a harsh truth can give one the necessary will to walk right past all the disease festering beneath us. Beneath us, because that’s where they belong.
Have a go.
…And so the skies pour down no longer,
But the pulse is raging thunder
And I struggle and I ponder –
Will there ever be another?
Another morning’s estranged whispers
Simmer gently through my liquors,
Gouging my eyes out like scissors
To reveal the lonely thinkers.
And bound in faith like prisoners
Haunted by inquisitors,
They never speak, the listeners,
Of what is his and what is hers.
And I threw my severed soul
And my hatred made unwhole,
For I paid my cursed toll
A heartshattering thousandfold.
And my raging savage hunger,
All my lust and all my anger,
In a ghastly gasp they shape my answer –
There will always be another.
What is hers and what is mine
I no longer dare define;
I seek no more “how” and “why”;
I sold my venom for a smile.