Slow wave and beat
Its given tears of melody
Now I’ve fallen in
The dying note takes me with it
A quiet leave
Consumed whole by its own grief
And we are in the dark,
Where whispers bleed
The heart, the sight–all memory
From light without a plea
Strained along by the echo’s breeze
As we dissolve cold,
One deep inbreathe
At end, in frozen reach
This weak poem was where I left off back in March. The poem was written before I made the image, which is inverted from it’s original.
I seriously thought about it yesterday and said if I’m not writing something, or even attempting to write, even when I’m fresh out of ideas, I should not bother anymore. Nothing else I do is going to keep me here. There’s enough anger over it now, after three months of putting it off my list of priorities, to write in between every empty moment. There are a lot of empty moments now. And there’s always something to say.