INTEGRAL
Arms wrapped around legs and head buried into knees
who dares to understand the whimpering man? When was he not this way?
If there were a solitary street lamp, he might sit within its light, but that light would not shield him from the darkness pressing in nor keep him dry from a constant rain.
His words form echoes that pop like bubbles vanishing without being heard. From here to whom does he speak, from here who would listen.
He hides from an old fear, his memory of it affected by isolation. He cowers from an assault he does not see.
If this is his dream, then I must stir his bones to feel life again.
To remain where he is is a dying hell.
Strengthen your limbs and remember how it was to breathe. Force yourself to feel something other than vulnerable.
Release your weak grip on that post of self-pity. Walk out from the light challenge destiny.
If the darkness descends to render your soul what has the world lost; what if nothing happens and life begins?
