A Scarecrow Soul
A field of empty souls is all I seem to know. I am but a broken vase tossed from the comfort of my shelves. I am shattered, battered by the hands of my own ghetto. Dancing in the dim limbo of dead crows, ergo, I am a feast for death.
But thought is still brought, though I wish to breathe nothing. I clamber to be a maestro of the infernal, for there, I feel I have something to follow; an end. My ego sits hung from the hollow halls of my rotted chateau. Plastered like a Fresno I crumble with no caring of my colors.
Stretched out, my mind weak, I tread upon a plateau. Flat, empty, stranded in an abyss as I stand in the middle. A scarecrow, a symbol to advert the whispers of light. Drained myself dry of marrow; given to the damned.
My soul, no longer has a window. I have carved it a new place, silence of a Romeo. Poison, a vertigo of misery. Tipping me from my stability of concrete memory. Leaning away from what could have taught me.
But I became brittle, a placebo of conviction. Pleading as if there is always a tomorrow. I scream as if I shall burn of fever; Apollo. Detained in the harrows of my head, preaching of fallacy to concur my ransom; Calypso. Pulling me closer to the breath of a phantom.
Become but a embryo of existence. Lingering for serum, though it may cure no symptoms. Numb, null the emotions. Sever the system, bury to the bottom, where demons wail and I bring the lonesome. Feed the appetite of my feeble victim.
Reject the venom of my words as I set course to the sanctum of what I pray, shall bring me rhythm.
Thank you for reading, hope this resonated with you!
It is a struggle to remain of course. How to you keep moving forward?
More poetic thoughts, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words.
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