Tolling the Bell

There is an ugliness in all of this

This is the sense of despair

What am I?

I mutilate the lilac; finding claws

Poisoning it’s roots; finding flaws

Why? Because it chose to grow?

Because it grew too fast?

Because it needed sun

I am no gardener

What am I?

I can’t even write anymore

Unable to add words together

Like a child who knows the language

But none of its meaning

2 + 2 = 6

To reach down and try to pull out guts

It is black and cloaked; living in me

Living in me now

Despair wants nothing, but consumes


Fire yearns for breath; finding none

And the embers left are hardly a call for action

I find no form, no shape

I’ve died so many times

I forgot how to live

I forgot how to look forward

Because my eyes are tied to my back

That’s it, this poem is done

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