Sometimes I secretly worry about the things that tie me to unending suffering. Though my body aches, my heart still yearns. Weeping helplessly, drowning in a space of time and the fabric of the mind's universe itself.
I worry.
For I not what I will become but for what I have already become. This cold statue that bears no resemblance to the man that stood in reflection of the mirror. Slithering tears run across the cheeks of my spirit for he has witnessed the bastardization of purity.
Sometimes I worry.
Will I ever find my way back to him? For what the worldly challenges have crashed like violent waves of the Pacific I cannot bear to lose the North Star of my light. He yearns, he screams and worst of all he feels.
Deadened is the silence that grips the rapid composition of the mind. Frail is the tiny fractures of the conciouseness, nothing but just a deluded sense of sympathy and pity for the soul.
Will I ever not worry?
About the times blood has been spilt for glory and no longer survival, the wandering lust for victory over the sound care of empathy. It sinks me deeper. Penetrating the pores of my skin, deep into the structure of my bones. Reality simply cannot keep up.
I stand here today, afraid, alone and confused. The man in the mirror no longer weeps.
The man in the mirror now simply smiles.
No comments:
Post a Comment