The waters twisted, fell and suddenly conjoined
While the sun made the carrion into an arid shell.
Blistered feet are wrapped tightly, caked in pestled earth.
The light falls elsewhere- a rippling supper bell.
Kicking up clouds of dust goes tattered silk robes,
And away goes the ancient, crusted skin-
Wading and flaunting about, unsullied and naked-
Small forms devoid of our animate sin.
Exiles, threshed by being, with a steadfast obstinacy
Found in anguish, ennui, and museful song.
How they crooned of sacred hills, rolling into nothing,
And how the orange sun conversed long.
And they sang joyously of the endless cadavers,
Beneath those rolling hills and foaming, affixing waters-
And how the decaying scents in all prospects
Would grow and fester in our sons and daughters.
The song laid dormant in a starry sky-
Conjured in rousing bodies and secret gestures-
How their song rambled far and sowed itself in piercing quiet,
And scathed many ages with well-hidden despair.
And how their verses guide me toward an abyssal sleep
Delivered through the indifferent gateway of my chair.
-A suspended bell chimes on in unknowing.
Since the beginning of this year, my mental health has been on a bit of a downward *****. I'm not trying to worry any of you, but writing, as well as many other things, has become increasingly difficult due to a severe lack of motivation. I'm trying my best though- it's all I can do.