30/6/2021
I dig myself a hole to hide in, with my bare hands tirelessly plowing, the cold earth clasping my skin, clogging every pore but it's not enough, it will never be enough for me to stop;
to cease this ritual I so morosely take part in, for my arms seem to have their own minds and hearts so
deeper and deeper I must delve until the darkness enshrouds me, until my weapons I no longer need to helve,
lay them to rest beside my tired body as I finally give into earthly oblivion wondering if there's a prophecy of Pythian origin that could've predicted this doom that always looms above me with such force that into the earth it forces me -or at least that's what my crooked mind tells me-
but as I stretch my arms to feel the vastness of this pit, I can only feel the sun, its rays caressing my filthy skin for this cerebral hole was never deep enough for me to suffocate under the weight of this unforgiving land but it was merely an exaggeration of my fears as they land in my brain like tears in my palm.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬ᵖᵒᵉᵗʳʸ
Poetry𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨 (n.) 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘤 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯; 𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘻𝘰𝘯 Poems posted daily, for every day of the year. Works of an undefined theme with a touch of fantastical elements as well as a healthy dose of r...
