My feet are bleeding
on this rocky path
I have chosen for myself,
so my lips are curled upwards.
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“The heart is made not whole by that which it receiveth,
Nor by the soft laudation of the fleeting world;
Desire must perish, ere aught of keeping leaveth,
For that which is still entreated anon is hurled.”
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The true jewels of Literature are too precious to be hurled into complete oblivion.
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The truth was buried in the family garden, back in 1984.In 2005, I returned to exhume what was hidden. Only to find myself being enclosed by dark, cloaked figures. Aware of snarling voices describing the shame I had inflicted. Hands Grabbing me by my throat. Hurled into a shallow grave. Wailing desperately like a banshee for my release. Inhaling soil, losing each breath. Rasping for air, suffocating in hollow ground. Buried alive alongside my childhood trauma, Laid deceased in a premature grave.
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