My mind is empty. I struggle eternally with myself,
to find the words to write, to find some meaning in
this life. I scream soundlessly and beat against the door
that holds everything, so close and yet forever far. I try
to speak with wisdom and with certitude, to gently show
those erring the way, back into the sunlight, back, away from
the shadows, away from the death that comes to the living,
waiting, weighing, cold and heavy within your breast, a silent
stone of poison lead, content to wait, to drag, to drown, to pull
them down to final death, an empty pit in which no pain resides,
and to which no pain can be brought. It is left at the door, forgotten
and discarded, left to join the vast wastes of hate and anger, joy and
sorrow, love and melancholy, the trappings of life. I plead and hope
that someone, somewhere heeds my words, and I hope that they do
not read on and come to the bitter times when darkness covered me,
and I wrote of darkness, and sorrow, pain and melancholy.
I am so tired.