Within a harrowing outlet between nightmare and oblivion I pace steadily and bite my tongue at the sight of sunlight. Relief is an ever-temporary vessel towards no-man’s land – territory on which I know the ground more than the skies to the point no geological nomenclature can convince me there is anything beyond the soot and soil beneath my back and throughout my bones. Marrow, marrow, what hast thou set out for me? Through these fog-laden mirrors I cannot help but cross my heart and wish for a valiant sailor to emerge upon the sea. My ribs concave around my vital organs to shield them from the war amidst this island of desolate dreams and hapless hopes. I close my eyes and jut my neck back unto the heavens in hopes a holy feeding tube may affix itself to my esophagus and nourish my spirit and set my wilted, rose-colored soul free.
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I am a plague to my own health. I am a Devil to my own God. The colors fade black and convex to a point that jabs into my reddish heart and makes it rusty all over again. The cogs of my being begin to scrape off this corrosion and let it disperse throughout my frame. I feel each flake fall into my veins and settle atop my organs while my lungs fight to muster up enough gusto with which to breathe this out – this harrowing dance of furious copper flecks that dance around my soul and taunt my lust for life. My spine begins to clank with each instance of bending down to retrieve the saltwater that so spews from my orbital cavities, for too much blood has been lost already and I can’t stand to lose much else. Into eternal sleep I fade with no passing mention of daybreak because I can no longer discern the difference in illuminated atmospheres and the dark crevices of my heart.
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Tattered feathers affix their spines to an ambulance and flare out as the sirens screech down the alleyways of my despair. All momentary captures of joyous serenity are rendered lifeless and I stand even more utterly alone than before. The orifices of my being tighten so as to remain silent within the audible trajectory of this nuclear explosion. If all is not lost then why didn’t it leave a map before it went? I stand here on this terrace that overlooks the streets below and catch myself before my shaking corpse inadvertently places me over the edge. Who gave the cobblestone beneath my head permission to project themselves more inviting than the atmosphere that so surrounds my being?
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