When my head rests and settles
my thoughts free-flow
like steam from an overflowing copper kettle.
My chest sinks and swells
My cold, clammy hands clasp together
and nestle between my knees
to secure me from shivering beneath my sheets.
The dead December freeze batters my body
and so I dream.
Unable to abort the birth of an undying nightmare...
I begin to dream of shining on my own,
glistening all alone,
being covered in a quilt of Guilded gold.
I wish so much
to see a crease
or an escape to ease my troubled peace.
A way to cease this sitting
and kill this never ending quitting.
Kidding,
I'm not what I used to be. I'm something that I'm not.
I could knit a tight fit glove
for me and my humanity
to wed inside of.
I could pray that we never get pulled apart
even if sickness should be my suffering
and my witness.
Forgive me,
if I would rather stay sick
for the sake of my sanity.
I know what lies outside.
Ebonies of the sky
ebb at the glow
of the
twilight field of light
seeking sowing.
Forever showing
never knowing
how cold lonliness
is without a hand for holding.
If you had a hand to hold
would you?
Could you and your grasp
shake my shameless doubt
that our past has cast a stone
at the glass foundation of our future and
alas, our present cannot last?
Can your words
convince me that this is how it should be
and rid me of what I ought not to be
wraught with?
Or is this fraudulent truth an excuse
to let loose all of the fear we hold dear
as we hang dangling from a noose
as the world watches and people stare
as if they had nothing to lose.
I know I hope too hard
turning hope into current.
The positive charge barres
negative scars from burning,
but yet, my flesh is left
brittle and charred.
Maybe it makes no difference
or any sense at all.
It doesn't matter nonetheless, for I am desperate.