Footsteps one by one, stumbling at unsteady pace into an abyss of unstable and reliably questionable releases, desperate to shield what little sanity remains inbetwixt insomniac logic and medicated reasoning,
Slowly approaching silent demise of seldom appreciated bouts of clarity while simultaneously forgetting all conscious remorse of who once presided in the shell of a person who robotically now patrols routines,
searching on the ashen remnants of a map missing the most crucial pieces, the start and the finish- no X marks the spot to guide this wanderer home, no you are here, nothing of such quiet and cherished help to ease fears of forever lost,
nothing but shadows of ink, charred paper, and darkness too deep for sonar to detect movement- searching for more than emptiness,
this traveler is, in a word, consumed. Yet, though deep in such worrisome habits often shunned by smiles and protective deceptiveness, there is light peeking through cracks and folds and fibers in the thin paper web of life, asking and pleading and believing in some mystery unraveled without being solved, seeing as the perpetrator of said malicious crime is none other than a frightened victim of circumstance, and looking closer, the heart within isn't dark at all, but bright.
And in interest of preserving precious light, the soul windows are boarded, nailed shut, locked ten times over with countless array of mechanisms, hands clasped tight around the key in a death grip, for this Innocent doesn't understand the racing thoughts even in the most brilliant mind, not for lack of knowledge but for fear of becoming too accustomed to what insinuates tears.
But one day in fairly near future, with hope and prayer that such will come about, she will be consumed not by the demons residing in her thoughts, disconnecting her at times from the reality she knows and loves, but rather by a peace too penetrating, too powerful and welcoming, to ever be dashed aside for very long by clawing, desperate arms of past tormentors.
Nay, she is not consumed by darkness, nor by the dwellers of haunting midnight, not as long as moonbeams still slither their way through the branches to guide her home.
