on a cold winter day,
frigid frost formed and manifestations of decay enter a
window, bordered in porcelain of gray; a
monochrome-like portrait suspended in time whose
passing is told only by flickering dances of a flame of
the cinnamon-scented candle decorating this frame;
the soft beams of ruination illuminate
a similar scene of dread opposite
to the windowsill.
feeble and fraught is the fetus figure that lies,
as if frozen, atop a wrought carpet,
craving poison; a body that aches, a body that cries;
its tremors shrouded under a blanket by
which its last semblance of warmth is granted;
twisted, pale, open-mouthed and wry,
is the face from which a shallow breathing
emanates, perpetuating as a looping sigh;
all senses fail as this sapping mind
resists the pain, desperate to shelter and hide
projecting its perception to the frost outside;
but an inexorable force pulls it inside;
it is stripped of all hope and pride
as a memory replays:
"youll overcome this, youll be okay"
banalities and fallacies i see through,
ill always nod in vanity concealing whats true
my facade serves a purpose:
i keep okay by lying to myself and you,
and, besides, i fear my neurosis will drive
you away, no one likes feelings of blue...
on the carpet, chills seep in waves,
electrical pulses reverberate,
a piercing brilliant light terminates
my consciousness; it all fades
i am yet again pulled inside where my demons await