A Corpse To My Soul
A Corpse To My Soul I don't know where to take this. This corpse of mine that drags at my feet. It holds at my ankles with much desperation though it is dead. I can smell its stench with each fading second, but I have become null to it. Its grip, hollow, but somehow clings to me as if I am a God. And I hear it pray behind its rotted teeth that I will raise it from death. I try to ignore its spoiled flesh, its barren voice. But I am drawn to it when the world becomes a haven for burdens. I listen to it with regretful intent. And when I listen, the hills before me, grow that much higher. I become a thimble of a man, pressed heavily with anguish. With the constant battle of what is no longer, as I clasp with aspiration to create what will be. And this corpse, in its moments of declaration for wishing existence once again. I rage in my voice that it will shut up. That it will release itself from my ankles and let me walk in peace. But in just the moments I stop. Wher...