You Don't Die Today
It's morbid, this existence, well, at least it can be. Moving forward at a snails pace, hoping for a by product of such motion. But you begin to feel still, as if a wall stands before you. You push, and push, and push; but with one more push you break free.
You find yourself running so fast it feels as if nothing can stop you. Then again, you are taken by a sudden arrest. You fall to a grave of despair, leading to the undertaking of climbing. Grabbing hold of the loose soil only to gain no foot. Your mind weary, your heart stale.
You see wraiths obscure the light from above. Their looking down, smiling, you reach for them. They say no words, but you know, you know their eyes deceive you. But they place down their hands as if to aid.
All you plead for is escape; but you are the breeder of these phantoms, these ghouls. Still, you reach for them. Upon the taking of your hand; pulling you from the grave.
They already conspired to treat you to the false hope of being free. They allow the air fill your lungs, you begin to feel a sense of freedom; a tingling takes hold of your spine. But as you reach the surface; they drop you.
You're returned to the cage of your gloom. But you curse them not; your shadows. You lean your tongue toward a surge of misery, suffering, and pity. You speak with no reason to blame the helm at which you hold. It was no others that led you to this grave; to this despair.
So, you fall for the deceit of your shadows again. Conversing with the wraiths creating an indenture of servitude. Forcing the slumber of your soul in the deepness of your cross. You cower to the corners of hell, pleading like a runt in a liter of mutts whimpering for the teat.
Leading you to the fermentation of sour thoughts. Darkness conceives to overwhelm you; you vanish from what you once were. You form a second exterior, a glass doll; a void wrapped in a facade of vivid colors. You continue this re-flux of incessant pleasuring of demons.
It all becomes colossal, the mere act to wake, to breathe. It all seems futile, the dreary feel of loneliness brings a foul romanticism.
But I say today you die yet.
For there comes a moment, when exhaustion becomes aggravating. Waking after the sun become dull, agony starts to shed like skin. You begin to find light, you take your hands and form a ladder in the walls of your grave.
You surge with life, pulling your cross from the soil; bringing life to your soul and bear it upon your shoulders.
I believe, it is your time to climb from your grave.
Thank you for reading.
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