My Field of Withering Roses
It has grown dim, everything is turning to shades of bland hues. Absence of color shrouds my thinking. My eyes no longer see the beauty that once cascaded my vision. I am alone, walking quietly through a field of withering roses.
The sky is white, the ground is dark. My own flesh is toned with color of stones. I feel heavy, restless as I feel myself sink to the desperate empty calls of my heart.
I thought by now, I would transcend past my stresses, my anxiety. I thought, I would be the one to bear the answers to the broken, to the bitter of my friends, my family.
But, I am still but a ghost in the halls of time. Ticking away slowly as I pride myself in my work but see no return for hope. Seeing no light to shine upon the freedom of my constant tension of mind. Straining my heart with burdens I am falling.
Tripping over the slow pace of change. I preach often of patience but my steps are becoming greatly demanding. I feel my soul needing a cane, or at least, some sort of stick to hold my wiggling knees. My hair now strings of patches of grey.
Am I falling before I ever am free? Is this as far as my passion shall take me? Are all ears that once joyed in my words, flail from my existence? Or am I not humble enough, do I bear too much greed for what I think is astounding, but others see as worthless writings?
I look through this withering field of roses and I am thinking I am best among them. Silent, cold, frozen in death. Living, but motionless at heart. Seeing no reason to keep my once elegant petals to remain wide.
I fear my time has come, though short it has been, I have felt more alive than I ever have. My words have pulled me from the deepest of hell's. Many times have they brought me to light even though my shadows be upon my throat.
My talent, though as simple as the next, has been freeing. I am humbled by the gift that has been bestowed upon me. I would ask for nothing more in this passing life. But as time passes and my words become dribbling marks before others, I think I am now but a ghost.
A translucent figure now sensitive to silent echoes of my words, as they hang from my pages with no others to speak of them. It has been quite lonely among these withering roses. For too long have I written among them and I fear I have no wish to leave them.
Maybe, this has been all but a mirage of hope, of possibility. Maybe, I am but like many others, destined to sit idle before the clock. Counting the days till my weekly freedom, I am poor in pocket and poor in hope.
Everything is now black and white, and I am tearful of my vanishing breath between the words of others.
Do you ever feel your effort becomes nothing more but a ripple in an ocean?
Heavy heart, looking for understanding of pain? A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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