A dark night of self love
Sometimes, late at night, there’s a haunting whisper that prompts me to stay awake and write. Sometimes, there are no words, only visions of future dimensions sailing by.
Fragments of my passed self hold on as I drag her behind me — relentlessly. The asphalt wears her skin all the way through to the bone. From there, dust and decay follow until I’m ready to say — “it’s time to let go.”
Sometimes, early in the morning, the day chases my dreams away to wake with her. At this point, the world feels like an echo from which the ears of my soul stretch out to mimic the tone. Just so it knows it’s still here.
One day, I might be blessed with babies and the quiet secrets of the darkness will be drowned out by cries of need before I could ever tend to my own.
If I never have babies, I’ll light a candle every night, for the rest of my life, to honour the glow of a ghost dream, a mirage held in the shadows of a self, I’ll never know.
Perhaps I’m really just going in reverse? A quench for an existence I can’t quite muster enough thirst…
A blacked out battlefield of haunting whispers, blindfolded
into the night, a promise to my soul to write, feeling ready for some real answers — then again, not quite.