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Category: Poetry for the Weary Traveller

A Rather Pallid Piece

A Rather Pallid Piece

It was pale;

Pale all around.

Pale through the windows,

pale in the pallor of her skin.

She glanced around her pale house

that reflected her pale life, and

the pale coldness in her heart

from years of pale loneliness in her soul.

 

All of it, pale.

 

Her pale living did not satisfy her,

and so she did what all pale people do;

She walked out her pale door,

took her last breath of pale air

and glided to the water’s pale edge.

 

As she descended,

the paleness turned to darkness;

A smile stretched across her pale lips,

and the darkness turned to black.

Numb

Numb

Numb.

That’s what I am on some days – I may even venture to say it’s who I am on some days.

It’s a dull, empty feeling, and in these moments, I’m void of emotion.

My face is slack with unintentional apathy; my body is uncoordinated and weak, as though I have hollow bones and muscles of wet paper.

Easily broken. Easily torn.

On these days, neither my body nor my mind are my own.

I am, instead, a trembling ghost of who I was before, held prisoner within the walls my own personal hell.

I lay helpless and weak, like a distressed damsel on a silk-strewn bed,

When I’d like nothing more than to be the hero, and slay my captor on my own terms.

Instead of words rising valiantly from my lips, they catch in my throat and choke me silent.

But I have a story to tell and I want to scream!

I fall into an exhaustion sleep cannot fix – it’s not that kind of exhaustion.

It’s a vast abyss filled with the long-since dead pieces of my soul.

The loss of time leaves me breathless and self-loathing –

They tell you to make your time meaningful, but how can I when it takes the most time to dress this corpse in a smile?

Silent War

Silent War

The bones ached in her skin — the splintering past of moons long gone, and chilling end of suns long set.

Ghost-like threads of empty dreams and silent screams were left to hang in broken windowpanes.

Her mind lay blank and cold in shadows strewn with shattered glass, where stars shown after morbid wars.

Though still, whispers lingered and murmurs breathed the promises of long before,

when vacant souls were foreign, and famined hearts were unknown.

Broken

Broken

Coffee stains, faint and ghostly, ruined the long-since virgin wood of the table beside her. Powdery ashes settled like smoldered dust into the crevices of the scratched surface. The skeletal remains of cigarettes lay cast aside amidst the war-torn ashtray.

Mindless sketches lay strewn across the table, though most abandoned months ago. The graphite was smudged on many pages, a few bearing sign of an angry cigarette burn. There was just emptiness in those pages, just blackness among the white.

She was lost. She had found her way before, but her little strength was ebbing. She wished this was the last time she would ever feel so alone. Though she knew it wouldn’t be.