This thing...

Delicate,
fragile
but potent.
Erratic even.

Yet I hold it close.
I clench it fast within my grasp.

I care not
for its volatile nature.
I care not
if it’ll sway me.
I care not
if it’ll explode.

Because at the end of the day,
it’s all I have.

Nights get heavy.
When every thought becomes a curse.
Sleep is waylaid.
When every subtle nuance you begin to nurse.

Hours grow long.
Rest becomes a dream.
Seconds start to undo...
Every stitch in every seam.

Shadows come to play,
as their dance warps your grasp.
Demons come to say...
That you’re welcomed in their sinister clasp.

.
He'd arrived at the door
many times.
His fingers would always
wrap around the **** with surety
and little hesitation.

He’d pause...
Just to relish the initial sting
of the coolness
in the brass and let it
soothe the creaks in the bones
and skin on calloused fingertips.

When he was ready,
he’d twist but
his wrist wouldn't work.
Like a hinge that hasn’t seen grease,
it wouldn't comply.
It would freeze because
he is afraid...

He knows well what awaits
beyond the threshold of this doorway.
He knows of what he craves
that calls like a siren beyond the door.

But yet...
He’s afraid.
Because what he wants the most
scares him so.

And opening this door leads to...




Closure.

.

If the
weight of thoughts
could wear away
the resilience
of the broken bough,

I must’ve done
something terribly
wrong
to feel the way
that I do
right now.

Sing me a song.
Sing of days of folly.
Sing it sad...
Sing it as it is.
Sing its story.

Extend each syllable
into mournful vibratos.
Drown the
crests of choruses
with wrenching falsettos.

Let it be soft...
But sharp as a knife is keen.
Let it reach into my chest.
And grab at the lull in between.

So sing me a song.
Sing to me how I failed.
Serve me my sadness.
Sing to me...
My tale.