The Hollow Horrors Of Melancholy


The Hollow Horrors Of Melancholy 

I close my eyes in rest. But I am no fool to what shall find me in my slumber. For my viscous melancholy has the say in my dreams. It has suffocated the colors that once flourished in the springs of my dreams. 

It has coiled its leather body around the serene. Strangling the geysers of my imagination and I run dry of design as I seek to be clean. This demon, be it the spreading of the deranged, of my decaying brain. It flairs its wings and parades it fangs with each sleepless night at the strike of twelve thirteen. 

Its eyes, darker than any hue of ink you have ever seen. Its breath like the heat of candle held to close to flesh. Its screeches as if it too, has become the victim of the horrific. Of the wicked workings of sadness and the obscene. 

I would find no surprise to see that which haunts me. Is but another running from their horrors, but they have drowned to the cursed ravine. Now they haunt others for the mere hope their disease of the mental shall fall upon another and shall be free.

And in these terrible visions of sleep, I try to intervene. But the conditions of the miserable grip with great tensity to my senses. Pushing me to an almost formidable hysteria. This has become routine, and with each passing night, my heart races faster. 

I fear I may not be able to contest it, for I am growing exhausted in battle. I feel the swinging of a melancholic guillotine, calmly waiting to severe my mind for mental hygiene.

I am falling to the instincts of the lizard and am feeling of a machine. My words have become vapid to constant washing of the unclean. Scrubbing in thought, but the stains remainy. They have become the scene of my dreams. 

Even the flavor of a tangerine, has become dull pleasure in this living of what may be a broken gene.
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