I seated myself, by that familiar desk
Where I could break character, cut scene, rest.
And remove the cracking mask under which
No knife could stab.
To turn back to emptiness.
They trickled down my face, scattering scars
Of transparent regret in their wake.
Growing flowers withering away
On my window, for kinder chance.
Hollow pots left behind, hugging the dust.
On the walls, pictures of my life hang over my head
Much like a film tape with no definite end.
Every smile that creases the corner of the eye
A distant echo of the life that was mine.
Gradually, they fade in solitary picture frames
A single specimen of light dances across my face,
In which the mocking-glass stares at me impassively, but
Not before I witness the lack of reflection.
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"Maybe we feel empty because we leave pieces of ourselves in everything we love"
- R.M Drake
YOU ARE READING
Silence in the Walls
PoetryThis is for those who lost or found their voices. This is for those who could and could not breathe. This is for anyone who is stuck or escaped the dismal abyss of all-consuming emptiness. This is a reminder; a representation of the hardships we co...
