• 2:27 am •

29 2 0
                                    

This heavy, tar like cloud,
one of pure anguish,
continues to hang low over my head,
and my slowly, weakening frame of bones.
Everything is happening so quickly,
yet I sit almost paralysed
under the warmth of the bed sheets,
staring at the ceiling; a blank canvas.
Where my mind projects painful memories,
and paints words of agony.
It's a dangerous, deadly cycle,
one of six foot waves
filled with immense sorrow,
that all come crashing down over me.
Still paralysed,
all I can do is sink beneath the swell,
an ocean of distressed tears.

Broken Wings - Poetry {COMPLETED}Where stories live. Discover now