Aug 05, 2004, 01:35 AM
Group: Basic Member
Joined: Jan 11, 2004
From: With Steven
Member No.: 908
The wounds are deep and mortal.
I am doomed to this eternal misery;
a Flying Dutchman with a pretty face.
Joy cowers in the corner,
beaten one time too many.
Yet still her lips move in silent prayer
that a merciful hand might lift her up.
Hope lies buried in a box in the wilderness;
ransomed and helpless,
cruelly bound in the pitiless ligatures of self-loathing.
Her tears of grief only make her colder.
Screams of rage, cries of pain and frustration
stay pushed so far down
that only a low moan escapes.
In private, where no one will hear.
If I gave them voice would they ever stop?
Hunger dominates, growling incessantly,
yet will not allow itself be fed.
Am I the feast it craves?
Will it not be satisfied until my body
lies gnawed to the bones?
Fear taps my eyelids with brutal fingertips,
and will not let me rest.
I am so tired, yet it will not let me rest.
Death is a conspirator,
throwing an arm across my shoulder, smiling compassionately.
God forgive me, sometimes I can't help
resting my head against his chest,
and taking comfort in his promise.
My spirit flickers feebly,
sparking and sputtering
like a candle in the wind.
Why was I chosen for this?
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