| Written: SEPT 10, 2000 |
Like a creek that becomes
A river, too long, too deep.
As the crack that turns into the chasm
Down to Hell’s bowls.
Sometimes words are naught
But words.
And a reaving of Souls
Mars the hearts involved too much.
In the void found in between wakefulness & sleep:
I find visions of anger tempered,
Murder of myself at the hands of
A lover’s broken Heart.
Within dwells such fantastic malice,
For which all pain recently caused doth vent.
As the view clears,
I wish it to be naught at all.
For when souls part,
A death takes place.
Yet if it were a physical one.
It matters none at all in difference.
In defiance to my melancholy sanity,
I think of things better unsaid.
As in the saying,
The strings unwind and are broken.
Once unwound or broken a new member is born.
That of sadness, of regret & longing.
Of which, we three are one & the same.
Yet will we remain.
A saddened lot we become.
A trio of lovesick ideals, tested and found needing & wanting.
Faith nor trust can repair it,
Once the third is sentenced to fill the gap left.
When Souls part.
