I once knew a man, with brittle calloused hands. The cracks seemed to scream of nightmares, and whisper of dreams. His knuckles appeared to know pain, and plans relentlessly laid to waste in vain. Scars stretched the length of his palm, damaged almost beyond, yet still they remained perfectly calm. He once spoke, in a whispered choke, of a dream found and a heart broke. He croaked again, of how he learned to shed his skin, in order to better understand his sin. He rasped, in gasps, of how love holds while devilish lust attacks, clings and grasps. His eyes rolled back, and in the wake of deaths attack, I shed a tear, to another love story returned to the black.
It’s often hit and miss, the distance between paradise and the abyss. There’s just so much noise, in a world with limitless choice, who would ever care to hear my voice? What can I actually offer, should I even bother, should I just continue to quietly ponder? Are my words just senseless and inane, cryptic babbles of ghosts and rain? I like to think they drift out, and get lost right about, the moment between a whisper and a shout. Then maybe they drift down, among the leaves on the ground. An Autumn wind, then blows in, and I watch their journey to you begin. Taken by the will of tomorrow, they exist in a place beyond fear and sorrow. Collected and protected, safely tucked away, intent to be neglected. Then again, however, I must admit. That I may, possibly, just be losing my shit.