He pauses in the twilight, a distant motor chuckles,
Fate is tending gingerly now, bruised bloody knuckles;
A blow to the soul, that knocks the air out,
Wounds bleed crimson; cuts let out a shout.
Where does one turn, when one’s own sides
With narrow minds, hollow words and ego rides?
What does one do when infinite seems less,
When neglect is tendered as memories fess?
High tides on shallow shores engulf him whole,
Self bears an ugly form of his embattled soul.
Floating; he strikes worn out boulders,
Sinking careless; burdened shoulders.
Resigned to fate, the will to live ceases,
Body numb, turgid; the turmoil increases.
The ride is ready; the charioteer – meth,
And mind has a tryst with uncommon death.
…
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