For the Lack of a Better Title: Poetry

Mindless

                         Mindless

My tender feet are a wasteland of skin marred by scrapes and small cuts.

The nearly depthless wounds I carry in my flesh invoke shame in the shallow most tide pool on the beach.

Though the coastline once consisted of diamonds, jagged, once transparent glass, now clouded and slick with my blood is all that remains.

Unable to clot, gore pours out of my
soles, creating a sensation as if my soul too has escaped with my oozing blood.

Cobwebs of the spiders that have crawled inside and made themselves a home are all that remain inside the essentially hollow cavern in my chest.

My chest a cavern that no longer resonates with echoes of memories of the heart that had once beat, flourishing with life.

The only vivid memories lurking in my mind are that of my shadow being the only one by my side.

All on my lonesome.

Utterly isolated from everyone and everything excepting my perpetually dark thoughts.

Thoughts of which have a taint far more toxic that the venom of the most deadly snake's fangs.

Futile attempts to escape myself lead to a rare tolerable thought or memory.

Memories of which are no more than a photograph that had been folded and unfolded to the extent in which it is nothing more than fragmented scraps of waxen paper, soft and fraying where the edges intersect.

Lost in the empty abyss of my subconscious being, choking on stagnant tears, I have no greater desire that to get baptized in the river of youth and innocence.

  But innocence has long since left me. Left me imprisoned by myself.

Although I am not imprisoned in the physical sense, I am still on death row and have no hopes of returning.