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Death's Bony Hand

When love crumbles in the heart, the soul grieves forevermore.
Looking at old photographs in an album full of memories,
It fills my heart with melancholy, I never thought you'd leave me,
I'm staring through the eyes of someone who's no longer alive,
The heart still beats a little, but it's broken so much, it just wants to die.

In a coma of confusion, thoughts just spiral out of control,
The spirit leaves its substance, ice crystals form over the soul,
A shadow veils the vision as seen through blurry tears of despair,
The bell tolls its mournful psalm that heralds a bereavement to fear.

The cold enveloping darkness of the night is so terrifying,
The voice of ghostly reminisce scares me with the act it's implying,
An image of cold water that runs beneath the bridge of the damned,
The void seems so inviting, I contemplate my trust to command.

Pain is no illusion when its tendrils reach and probe into the mind,
When they squeeze the lungs of oxygen and pierce the heart with the sorrow of demise,
The urgency to surface for a breath is a struggle at best,
Survival flails at sorrow in battle, trying to lay the love to rest.

If pity is a worthless cause, self-pity is an act of suicide,
It drains away all reason in the eddy of a maddening state of mind,
The impulse to make you sorry for your deeds is driving me insane,
I cannot go on living with a lost cause that can never be regained.

And so that bridge is calling me to stand upon its solemn ledge of pain,
Such is the grief that fills my heart and chills my soul with mortal shame,
That life should be thus improvised, a spontaneously impulsive end,
I cede myself to Death's compromise as I reach toward his bony hand.
By
Published: 4/6/2013
Bouquets and Brickbats