journal · poetry

Eight

The walls are tumbling
and I am stumbling
down.
Does no one hear the sound?
I swear,
the echoes of each cry
resound throughout the space.
This old, forgotten place
where dreams are laid to rest
and nests of thoughts long lost
drift past like spectres:
harrowing reflections
of misplaced wishes
and dying obsessions.
All are a lesson learned,
a lesion,
a legion,
of lacerating letdown.
They leave a taste
of the wasting burn
of love and loss upon my lips
in a series of haunting kisses
that twist my tortured soul.
Yes, this is what is left amongst
the ruins in the absence of
tomorrow.
My life has fallen into past tense,
my heart blooms with sorrow,
and I crumble.

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