Chronicles of Life

I grew up in rows of houses ending in graveyards, where six feet of dirt covered the mound of my existence and failure arched every single doorway. Depression draped the windows with patterns stitched by poverty’s unapologetic hand. The futility of language lacing its voice with abject grief and guilt; Expression left to moan its desperation, yet unable to communicate its plea. While eyes lost the blue of horizons and hope-- blindness welcomed as agony’s twisted comic relief. Emptiness has a way of filling up and spilling over, consuming; Until all that remains is a chronicle of life lived too painfully in reverse, and the screaming sheathing of despair mummifying the entombed...