July 29, 2012 § Leave a comment
Only time can quell the sting of a bitter heart whose frayed strings tangle as it thuds its way into a pitiless destitution. To prematurely refill the insipid remnants of a juice whose acids scorch the lining of a muscle whose life lends you your own, is to salt a wound that tunnels to and down through to the bowel of one’s soul.
Pity is a windowless cage, whose walls are coated in oil, perched high above an abyss whose bowel roars at the moth who dares drift towards a dishonest light.
When at last mercury melts, creeps through and dribbles out of the arteries it once clogged, snatches of new hope tip the scales towards convalescence,
and at last there is peace.