A small child toddles across the sands of an infinite, nocturnal beach.
His eyes glisten like the moon as he admires the wonders of his world.
Everything so simple—good—pure.
His mind, the inner being, reflects his outlook; all is in reach.
The child’s heart is young, filled to its brim with Gold untarnishable.
For the sickness, innocence is the cure.
He was content, and life was complete for him.
But as he walked on the sand, and spied those who were ahead,
He wanted…
And his heart of gold began to drip.
A youth, only just a man, ambles across the beach’s grainy powders.
His demeanor is confident, his face fresh, yet his eye sparkle lacks.
He keeps on, and the world, his friend, offers him promise limitless.
His mind is vibrant, seemingly invincible, he never shirks nor cowers.
His heart still pumps Gold through his veins.
For the sickness, youth is the resistance.
As he continues his walk, step by step,
His ambition grows.
He feels utterly untouchable by any evils around him.
Becoming the God of his own world.
He yet still wanted.
Shaken, the young man begins to cough up the Gold.
And his heart began to bleed.
For the sickness, youth is the fuel.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
His inner man watches as the polished yellow liquid seeps
Into the barren wasteland that is his mind’s.
Deep into the dirt it creeps.
The sickness, once harmless, now binds.
With each compromise, the man’s moral skeleton cracks.
Step by step, his integrity weakens until,
With the nauseating snap of bone,
It breaks. Like a soundless scream,
Reverberating undetected in the recesses of his mind.
He no longer wants as he did before.
Regret slowly takes its place.
Shame, like an old friend, wraps the inner man in an embrace.
He offers a solution.
Vice, he promises, will fix all in time.
The man, desperate and lost, took it,
Failing to notice the chain Shame silently placed around his neck.
An old man, wrinkled and bent, stumbles across the beach sand.
He is cautious, almost fearful—his eyes are dim, and his brow is heavy.
The waves rise, his body to take, he staggers and falls, unable to go further.
His inner man also cries ceaselessly, too weak to stand.
His heart, now empty, aches.
To the sickness, he gives in without a murmur.
His inner man falls silent, the tears, like ghosts of his emotions,
Float silently down his face.
Frantically he sinks to his knees and begins to dig at the dirt,
Searching for a single remaining drop of Gold.
But none is to be found.
Shame stands smiling grimly as
The sickness overpowers,
And the inner man falls into the dust,
Lucid eyes staring searchingly at the empty hole,
His tears form streams as they flow into it.
He stares,
As from the hole,
A seedling flairs,
With leaves of Gold.
A hand, too warm, too soft to be Shame’s,
Falls on his arm.
The tears vanish from his face,
And a majestic warmth fills his body.
Regret gives way to content once again.
The old man on the beach rises slowly to his feet.
He stands straight, as the wrinkles retreat into his skin, and his eyes fill with light.
His countenance becomes regal as youth returns to his step.
His mind renewed, he sees with a wonder that he will keep.
He runs, seeing the end of the beach in his sight.
His heart refills, as the seedling matures, and he remembers, with a solemn thankfulness, of the man he left.
As he finishes the race.
© Dysphoria, 2018
