For, Lady Lazarus - gone, but never forgotten.
There's nothing half
as quiet,
as the nights
spent drifting aimlessly
through
your own pool
of sorrows,
a sea of deadly tsunamic waves,
seismically shifting my senile state, my
ailments, longing to belong;
a wailing lament, a song only sung in mourning,
the Sirens sing, a cascade of longing love.
A fatal flaw will be increasingly evident;
and it will asphyxiate you, a suffocation
of the vilest kind, a hamartia of hate,
bound and gagged by a monster
that is you.
The deepest, darkest, and most
deranged depths of your mind,
drudged forward.
Azrael, the patron saint,
searches silently and oh-so-violently
on the dank breath for disdained Death.
There's nothing half
as quiet,
as the nights
where you feel
rather than see,
Beethoven's 5th
sinister symphony,
played out across your
wrist in scarlet numbers,
a violent virtuoso of various veins
agape and skewed.
The blood lost is
nothing more, and nothing less than that;
an eery crimson trail
marking your progression
through this morbid musical.
There's nothing half
as quiet,
as the nights
where your thoughts bleed through
the pinnacle of your pen;
bitterly covering the page in your
legacy;
cohesively forming a tragedy
which not even Shakespeare's
eternal Hamlet could
hope to avenge.
Line after line, page after page;
you'd think it cathartic,
but anything which involves emotion
cannot be purged thereof.
A game of cat and mouse with words,
constantly chasing this thought train,
but once caught, the abstract idea
slips through your hands as if
you were trying to grasp
an oiled snake, but, to
catch a thorn, is to
grab at a rose.
There's nothing half
as quiet,
as the nights
where the darkness surrounding
you
isn't just an inky veil over reality;
it's more tangible and real,
the monster is under your bed,
the boogeyman is in your closet,
the abhorred horrors,
the demons,
are not just in
your head; Tonight,
they exist and dance.
Do not let the night
become half as quiet as
it once was,
for then your sun shall never rise;
and the lunar sky will become
eternal.
You do not wish to entertain
the apathetic arousal
that
accounts for your loss,
or lost you will become.
YOU ARE READING
A Suicidal Serenade
PoetryA collection of my own poetry, which I use as catharsis to purge all of my suicidal-tendencies. Instead of a blade to my skin, I take a pen to my page. It's also worth adding, few know me as well as those who read my poetry; if you wish to grasp th...
