The price of patience is an abundance of bodies.
Corpses corner you on every side.
The price of endurance is a cemetery.
'Enduring' means you're the only one to make it out alive.
Surviving
In the aftermath is just crowds of undead staring at you.
Talking about the things you once said.
All the things you were going to do.
Shivering in the cold maisma of death,
Sometimes all you can manage is to choke and stutter through your own tears.
Looking long enough for loves to become ghosts,
Rips at your heart and tears at your mind's darkest fears.
Are you really ready for more?
Do you really desire right now what is to come next?
Or are you just tired of talking to ghosts?
Does sitting so close to all these bodies amplify and stab you with your own regret?
You cannot be scared of the dark
If you are to weild the patience to wait for tomorrow.
Enduring is a fools act
If you cannot make peace with and learn from your sorrow.
So you take a deep breath
And you curl up in the nearest coffin.
The only thing worse than your current regret
Is to rush through this mourning
And regret wasting the time you had left
To remain present and still with all your ghost's howling.
YOU ARE READING
M O S A I C
PoetryIt's called a crush for a reason. In the aftermath, you're left broken and scattered. Burning, vibrant colors without a gradient. Patterns without shape. But what do you become after you've been crushed? A Mosaic.
