If I bleed and spill the words from my soul...
let it fall upon the paper in crimson currents...
would it be enough?
Is there a knife sharp enough to cut out all the pain?
Must I rip through these scars to heal?
Ligaments and muscles tense, as I rip the flesh from my bone and brow.
Will the nightmares turn to daydreams?
Will dawn arrive on death's hand or angel wing?
Can the hot searing metal brand me as one of them?
Smoke and charred skin with the smell of burning funeral pyre like Viking funeral,
a Valkyrie awaiting her Valhalla.
Will a moment of misery arouse my demons and finally cast them out?
An exorcism of my past and present failings awarded by judge without jury.
Is the rapture just a step away for the damned?
Salvation is but a lie we tell ourselves...
to silence the shouting in our ears that none can hear...
except the walking wounded,
the lost and forgotten.
We are just characters in a Dickens play,
the lost orphans with chilled nose and frozen fingers pressed upon the glass.
Seeking feast on the inside, yet alone and cast aside.
The beggers in the street, the outcast, the forgotten and unforgiven.
Finding unity and strength in our flaws,
we bind together like packs of dogs searching for the one place of warmth to rest.
Shelter just a temporary facade in one place or another.
We face the new day alone in the company of our own heartbeat.