In the Stars

The second hand on the clock mercilessly drones on.
Surrealistic seconds spin dizzyingly.
Distorted colours of sagging sunrises melt into intoxicated sunsets.
Vapours of innocence dissipate into laughing
stars,
hysterically hyperventilating on sorrow’s torment.

The stinging dirt beneath my feet offers no condolences,
only festering deeper into subcutaneous wounds,
infecting every white blood cell until delirium overrides.

Shame and regret drip from screaming clouds
as a murder of crows gathers in the dank ambience,
criticisingly cawing between razor-thin lapses in time.

Frenzied winds obscure judgement.
Vines of poison ivy tangle,
dragging me down in the pandemonium,
whilst a growling ground begins to open,
exposing the truth—my festering grave.

Feel the accelerating pain of memories taking hold.
Already dead, drugged by denial,
a soul bound to a faded reality,
vanished within the cracks hidden
within the confines of time.

deathgothicgriefimagerymetaphorfree verse

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