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I hate the times where you wonder
about essences, fabrics and bindings
trying to hold and define everything
make it sensical and realistic
without a regard for the free
and yet no emptiness finds me
echoes of the past are caling to me
abetted by regrets of today and yesterday
deathly cruel whispers and harsh screams
how am I so bound, aching to break my fetters
with crimsons rivulets staning paled skin
and now in the absence of stillness I wonder
is to stop and be alone the end
wondering if maybes are the thing to save
to show where I am, only one in the cast of lost
writhing with the hatred of self.
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