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This piece of me fits nowhere in the vastness of the cold world
This piece of me fits nowhere in the vastness of the cold world.
While others find things to do with their time, places to go.
Things to say to each other in the shadow of the evening falling over false gardens.
I burn in hell somewhere north of dreams lost in the mist of time.
Flowers do not grow here in my inner gray land, covered in dead dust.
I am not like other people with their colorful paper souls and tin hearts.
Other people are like other people, like an army of identical, mute shadows.
They are all the same: embracing, clustering, curling up like cats.
They are cheerful and content with their mundane fate and destiny woven from smoke.
And I burn in hell with my heart of thousands of years, in my crystal soul.
I am not like other people with their glassy, cold eyes, uttering empty words.
I would die on their picnic grounds, drowned by their fake green and flags.
Struck by their songs that echo like knocking, unloved by their soldiers.
Pierced by their humor like poisoned arrows, killed by their suffocating care.
I am not like other people with roots embedded in the common, barren ground.
I burn in my personal hell, made of unspoken words and screaming silences.
The hell within me consumes me like an eternally burning fire in the black soul.
Each reflecting another form of absolute loneliness, a shade of pain.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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