10/7/2021
The air escaping my lungs one sigh at a time until all that's left are two hollow filters inside of my chest.
Nostrils flare and close as they try to hoard whatever polluted oxygen is left in order to fill the empty crevices and keep this heart beating for a bit longer,
and yet intrusive thoughts barge in like robbers in the night effortlessly running off with my most precious worldly good; my exigency to live.
Leaving me to question if the strain in my pectoralis is worth it, if another painful attempt at drawing breath will be more fulfilling than an afterlife bare of troubles.
The leather-skinned demon sitting heavy on my chest --the nourisher of such notions-- keeping me down, paralyzed under his hellish spell until I give in to his selfish demands, until my soul he feasts upon but alas,
the morning light enters through an uncovered spot on the curtained window, my senses return abruptly, and the beast on my chest returns to the wretched pits of Tophet.
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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...
