I was glad I got a job
It wasn't that good of a job
But in such least I get to have
Something to do after sundown.
I'd lay awake and settle in
And tame the waves underneath
As wild as how my heart would pound.
Maybe in darkness a comforting sound
Would reverberate, across the walls of my skull
And would ripple through my blood,
Even run like positive charges in my veins
Travel towards a negative source of
Bargaining and self-loathing.
A graveyard shift is as serene as
The waves I had tamed, only then
It would cry in sorrow of unknown
Language. A language my flesh never
Spoke. What language shall it be?
In graveyard shifts I'd speak with
Souls, death, and even lost voices.
Clean and warm like soil—that is the
Breeze that whispers, carries sweet
Hum of desolation and lonesome.
Time is fleeting, swiftly changing
An aeon flux of undecipherable
Runes. Perhaps in dawn I'd forget
The grasp. The bleeding of wounds
Around my brain—it would heal.
And the cut as deep as the trenches
Would elevate and would be shallow
As how I'd reminisce all the works
I did in graveyard shift.
YOU ARE READING
Carry Me Out
PoetryI wish I'd carry me out of the things I never want to be with. I wish I'd carry me out of this life, to leave what I had dreamed, to neglect what I had sown.
