To write, to write.
Even to write this, tragedy
finds the difficulty to be impossible,
unending.
The crunching sound of its bones with
no cartilage is
at such an eerie, unnerving volume.
The shrill nervous laughter
encased in dry shallow sobbing is
crippling.
To mutter the words that may carry
sounds of joy are nearly inaudible.
Conversation with a "friend" is a forked road;
One to speak and tragedy will hear.
A lover of the mind, a scholar of the scar tissue
or a prophet of misfortunes grasp
is the only reality for this
dear tragedy.
To sleep or rest these worn out eyes that
cannot escape the horror never ceasing to follow them,
would be a euphoric sense of helping oneself...
Now to make the sleep last
an eternity or more.