Forlorn

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You are a devil forlorn:
The surreal stream of my consciousness
Morbid and morose you rise,
Even when it is bright outside.
And I imagine meteor showers as I walk to work.

And for a reason unfathomable,
My feet are at your command,
With roots that perlocate the ground,
When rain falls like a thundershower.

Yet inseparable as we are,
You make me wonder,
What it is like,
To drown,
To burn,
To suffocate,
To be crushed under the weight of bridges that collapse,
When I’d rather shut my mind to thoughts.

And yet you make me meet death,
Time and again.
And see this world in an afterlife:
Tears in my eyes before I go to sleep.

No I don’t want to die.
I have watched myself from the other side,
Again.
And again.
And again.

But you’ve told me countless stories too;
Where I have saved lives,
And where I have discovered magic amongst the clouds.
And who can I credit,
For the fact that I really can,
And I have said this before:
That I really can tell where the nails in someone’s shoe hurts the most.

How I detest you sometimes,
Fickle imagination,
For showing me horrors that only exist in nightmares,
When I am wide awake.
But you have let me know,
That the solitary reaper might be singing,
Somewhere,
When he watches me intently,
As I sing my song.

You make my words come alive,
On paper like castles of sand:
Fleeting.
You, momentary as you are,
Make me the person I know I can be,
And oh,
How I love you for that!

The voices are all dead,
All my head now remembers is the statistics.
Another post.
A couple of likes,
Another day,
A march through conspicuous obsession,
Over faces,
Bodies,
And kind acts.
The voices,
That made me sing when the day was rough,
Made me dance when the music played,
Made me smile on petty jokes,
I don’t know when they faded away.
I carry a frame,
Soul bereft.
There is no spark,
The mind wide shut is a place so dark,
I shudder,
At the thought of visiting it again.
Perhaps,
And I hope,
When I sit down with Woolf or Barnes once more,
They shall get me back home I am sure.

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