moonangel poetry Poet Free verse

Wish of Tedium

Haunted. 
Maybe that’s an articulation grave enough to complete the enigmatic shed of my skin.
Maybe that’s an articulation grave enough to morph into the holes of my heart.
Maybe that’s an articulation grave enough to bless my bones with the wonderous glory of my eternal rage. 
I find myself bathing in the security of my tomb. 
Its gravelly, grey walls are scarred with the calamity of my name.
Each piece of rubble rains down on me, a wary desire to drown in the beauty of my dearth, as if the void were the very answer to all the cries of inexorable solitude.
Each making of atom questions the horrid recalling of their parturition from the detrimental violence of my intestines, as if the food I forget to eat reminisces the metallic tang of fear that follows with every swallow. 
Each continuous fade of my body morphs into a pathetic attempt to forget the corners my limbs were pushed into, as if the oxygen in my lungs understand the significance of a survival sustained to own the capacity of an exhale. 
The bloodline of my making stares back at me; I wonder if it’s possible to extract the despair of their DNA.
The hatred of my bones stare back at me; I wonder if it’s possible to outgrow the isolation of my warren. 
The residues of my ruins stare back at me; I wonder if it’s possible to dive into the destruction of its voices. 
And as my shoulders slump in defeat, the only thing that lingers is the pondering wonder if I will ever be blessed with the tedious bore of normality.

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