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It was another fever dream
A bender loosening slowly,
Then tearing out the seam.

The yarn ain’t flowin’ true
When the tale has two ends
And it all ends in a feud

But what’s a man to do,
When his lover loves another
And no quick thinking
Will make it untrue?

What’s a man to do.

The ache he feels spreads to his fingertips

From the core of a beating crimson heart,

It eats away at him from the inside.

Rapidly expanding like a sheet of ice.

When time and time again he fails

And time and time again he tries

His heart, a broken furnace, seized mid-rhyme

As icicle thoughts plunge through gray matter

And limbs lose momentum with each stride,

The life he once knew, never seemed further

Or more difficult to hide.

When you see yourself through the distorted lens of depression, you have trouble recognizing your own reflection. You can’t see the seam separating your normal self from the irrational being that calls you its host, and shows none of the courtesies a guest should uphold. The lines blur, and all that’s left is a pain that washes over your heart like a malevolent wave lapping upon your withered soul; a pulsating ache that ebbs with the ever-changing tide of humanity.

His self-esteem lies in a fetid puddle

Staring up at him in longing

Wishing to restore its place.

He tries to cup it within his palms,

To drink and in turn reinvigorate.

Alas, like all things in his life

He grimly watched his salvation

Trickle slowly through stiff fingers

As though his skin turned to stone

And soon, his heart followed.

For swiftly the tears of regret

Flow like Neptune’s sea

From burning eyes,

Eroding his grip and

Withering away his heart,

All hope is swept away

With the ebbing tide.

It would be unwise to decipher the ache in his heart.

So much so that he truly believes

If he were to dig down into the depths

To recall the origin of that wretched,

unwelcome, drowning sensation,

He would no longer have the strength

To climb out of that pitch black hole.

That he may be forced along Dante’s path

With no guide nor God to lead him safely.

For within those depths he will plunge, and

The path of the absurd waits hungrily at the crossroad.

Fate is an unrelenting brute.

It’s never tempted by diversion

Or wise men with silver tongues

Forming hopeful hypotheses.

It’s simple though: Que sera, sera.

 

The young mother,

an abandoned lover,

has felt the cold steel

Of Fate’s unbiased blade

Gliding easily along her cheek

 

And perhaps the cackling clown

Sobs quietly in his room

After a standing ovation.

Remembering, all too well

Why his smile is simply a mask.

Do I recite the name in hopes it will bring back that old sensation

When hope was in the air, and just that word could reincarnate

Every bit of splendor that we shared?

No.

All that’s left is the smudge in hindsight

The blur that fights for recognition,

When I’d really prefer,

It stay no more, or no less, than a tiny, insignificant blur

Is there no end to the guilt that I feel?

Do I blame myself for another’s yield?

If light means life then I must concede;

the darkness has found me, as daylight recedes.

It smears carbon black over eyes pearl white.

Concealing the pleasure, enforcing the blight.

The agony is a bore, life becomes a chore;

when all that I can fathom

is the day it ran me ragged.