River Styx

My brain is floating on the river Styx, my heart lies languid on the moon.
I’m sick of bleeding –
The ink of a pen isn’t fated for this, I feel it’s lament struggle against my own.
So I release it of its duties.
Yet nothing can carry the story of a flightless bird flawlessly – on gusts of wind – but it’s own blood, so I tear open my veins and let them pour out life essence.
Mine, and my stories.
There is no sorrow, and that’s why this is a worthless struggle, a worthless barrage of emotions that ache and pound.
There is confusion.
Mindless searching for what the past cannot relinquish.
Will not loosen its grip.
There is fear.
Hiding in a self made abyss, a pit that uses its filthy exterior to warn off predators – or what is thought to be predators.
But there is no sorrow.
My veins, splayed open, attract crawling things, that feed on purity impure.
There is warmth surrounding… a moist red blanket that covers the body and shields it’s aches and pains.
Numbs fingers and toes.
There is nothing left.
I cannot ache when the body is failing
I cannot think when lifeblood is smeared on top of skin
There are very few seconds, when you’re relinquishing your grip to this world, to reflect.
I feel the hand, stroking my face.
Why is it that we humans feel regret when we have, at last, lost any chance to redeem ourselves?
I feel thumps slowing, the incessant pounding in my ear has finally
To a
They spread ashes into the wind, and no longer must I worry that I cannot fly.
My brain is floating on the river Styx, my heart lies languid on the moon.


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