What fresh invention,
Breaking with convention;
To press down with anger,
And drive firm with depression.
Comfort in the arms, of a
Thorny ex. Bathed in attention.
A hopeless obsession- the silenced
Tongue wags,
In this quiet procession.

This is the bottom.
For months, I have felt this hollow tunnel inside of me. It has been the only constant for a while. Like a wind tunnel on fire.  

Steadily I have felt worse in ways I never imagined. Each morning has been harder to get out of bed; I genuinely can't remember a day that didn't start with me bent over the toilet. Yet I stand, shakily. Sometimes covered in ***** - and I clean myself up.
I get in my car. And I drive to work.

I am empty inside. I have no story. I have no melody.
I am untitled.

You may call it Sky.
I call it Blue Breeze.
You may call it Sun.
I call it Zen.
You may call it Rose.
I call it Reason.

Forsaken shrine,
Nights align,
In a spotted chalice,
Like onyx wine.
Out rings a bell,
A raven knell,
The wicked cry,
And doleful spell--
     --Of witching's time.

A wayward soul,
On blinded stroll,
As through the dark,
They must patrol.
The traveled path,
A harsh lambast,
And so return,
The hour's bath.

Fore a shape,
A phantom escape,
Awaiting idol,
Past a molten scape.
River quelled,
Fusion's shell,
Lest a shade and shadow weld,
Beware the spell--
     --Of witching's time.

The ashen mirror that reflects our world,

The support, the barrier, and the gateway,

A resting mosaic of serenity,

A whirling portrait of distraught,

And the connection of two contrasting worlds.

A slice in the silence, pain shoots from the wound,

No shatter, nor collapse, only scars of a memory,

Accompanying signs of an unknown future.

But as the clock ticks, the mirror warps, and age begins to wear,

A hail rains down, beautiful cries and solemn weeps bleed from a frigid shield,

Miniscule waves and movements rock the support as scars and sounds are birthed,

Then, the pillars fall, and the mirror bends.

But even if all were to crumble, the only feeling would be sweet relief,

A cathartic collapse, the wound releases,

The noise is cut, serenity and silence return, beheld in new forms,

For the only woe an eradication feels is held within itself.

The Night sets in,
with stretched out sins,
and daylight starts to thin.
Time yet to be paid,
Night's song is played,
and so your climb begins.

The songs are howls,
grave wails and growls,
quavering in your core.
But alas the yowls,
are now your score,
they'll play forevermore.

Your eyes spot nothing,
as the sky is bluffing,
shadow cloaking light.
But now the darkness,
your adverse catharsis,
will coat you through the Night.

You mount the wall,
Night's idle thrall,
as screeching leaves you stunned.
But as you climb,
a rock slips high,
and now you know you're done.

You put up a fight, saw the light,
but now the time is nigh.
The Night has won,
the songs are done,
and you never spotted the sun.