Demise

The constant feeling never fades

It haunts me ‘till the light of day

Through dark it beats my tongue and face

until I forget any trail of warm embrace

It feels no remorse nor guilt

for ripping parts of life with it

like the trail of needles penetrating warm red silk

leaving the fabric but distilled,

turned to nothing shy of liquid,

lifeless white cold milk.

The constant feeling never dies

It holds my throat and hangs me to dry

My tears lost track, they cease to flow

but the deprecation steads to grow.

How can it be a different way?

To dry means to take the flow away

To stiffen what once would sway,

All to please whom would chance to

wear me into the light of day

The constant feeling keeps me worn

Reminds me that I may as well be silk long torn

no reparations or sowing can fix

The damages made by strangles and kicks

Mending would push only towards a handwritten note and a noose in the mix

To mend, there had to have been something to fix

but I was cut from an early stage

By rackety scissors in the hands of an

Inexperienced artist I hoped would escape his immature age.