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.