Picking At Scabs
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A musky, burnt haze sears slowly into my nostrils.
The twilight hour pulses steadily, bathing stark walls in an eerie gloom.
Too awake to drift to sleep, yet too tired to drag my bones off this sinking mattress.
Thoughts cyclone like a tsunami within a withdrawn mind,
picking at scabs; the half-life of my darkness pools in red droplets.
Licking the wounds, the taste of metallic and melancholy blends.
Loneliness wraps its arms around my dejected shoulders like a winding sheet.
A howling wind rattles the paper-thin glass making up my windows,
as I ponder how I became the living dead.
Traumas poisoned my sanity,
slowly paranoia replaced reason,
delusions became my nightly bedfellow,
whispering sweet unpleasantries into tainted ears,
leaving hallucinatory trinkets in my repeating nightmares.
The world is shrinking, withering,
yet as I am becoming paralyzed by fear, I am unequipped to stop it.
Like a freight train derailed,
bellowing at full speed towards the inevitable,
I too am racing at the speed of light towards oblivion.
Copyright © Sara Jama | Year Posted 2025
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