a cavalcade of ominous thoughts

iii.

His dusty old desk sits in the corner of his room
the wood not strong enough, just like his soul;
he takes a paper and a pen,
his grip tight, his knuckles white,
his body shaking, his soul searching.
His gaze distant – vacant like the space in his heart
since that day.

But today he'll write it down,
those unforgotten whispers and forlorn looks;
those twisted beings in their black masks,
the darkness seeping through them never disguised.
He dips the pen into the pot of ink,
the color of which resembles agony
and heartless demise and excruciating pain and
the luck he wish he could rid himself of.

And so, he begins.
Every written word replaying the very moments
his therapist had been prodding him to say.
But who can speak of the raining
pellets of bullets and the blood of his beloved
friends while his luck saved his day.
Who can narrate the events of gore, every detail
as crucial as the life of those who were taken away?
Who can really speak after witnessing
the gruesome end of those he once laughed with?

But he hopes – just like he did that day -
that every syllable penned is self-explanatory,
every letter justified, every thought counted,
and every alphabet in the right place.
After all, the screams still haunt his mind like
the heavy downpour of blood.
The shivers still travel down his spine, as he's
forced to think of how lucky he was to escape.
Lucky that his friends met their end, but he didn't
because some superior being hiding away from the
wrath of this world failed to give his friends
the very luck he never deserved.
Lucky because he was alive, devastated and twisting
in pain while those he wanted to be alive with
were buried under the ground, resting in their graves.
Whether it was peaceful, he didn't want to know.

He thought writing about it he could free himself of
the shackles he had trapped himself within.
But the cage was iron and he was just already
broken. From within. It was better to be
dead and six feet under the earth like them than be
alive and tormented by the memories of that day.
And he wanted to join them, that would be harmony
but those around him said, "His life was precious."
And he shouldn't be an ingrate because after all,
his precious luck had saved him.

These words aren't helping him, they're just
sitting on this piece of paper – as easily crumbled
as his soul – and staring into the void he has
created. They're trapping him, dragging him into the
dark abyss he wants to climb out of. But it's
never ending and the darkness is seeping through
him and it's piercing his heart.
Because these words are reminiscent of what
he lost and what
he gained. Luck.

His pen drops –
are these words just as cruel as
his luck or are they just as much as
redundant?