Trapped.
The cold wind, cuts like a steel knife.
Lost to the barren wasteland of insanity,
I miss the days of action and strife.
What I've done, what I've yet to Do, actions of profanity.
The life after, eventually, will take me.
It's cold embrace, a friendly sight.
The shackles of existence, won't let me flee,
The constraints of living, and I'm to instead fight.
Control, though it always seems to elude...
Remains by my side, though dangerous in nature.
Is this it? Or just a prelude....
To be continued, via deaths sickle or thy sabre.
Attachments I've had, all turned sour...
Except the one I've needed the most.
Terrified, i fear the hand will strike the hour.
For now, i face punishments self imposed.
Sometimes I wonder, whether I'm early or late.
Nonetheless, patiently, at deaths door I wait.
YOU ARE READING
Hints of Sanity
PoetryMy writing... isnt like me. It's almost a different me writing. A me in the back of mind. Here I keep, some of my more, "different" poems.
