I long for the day when
His doorstep will be right in front of me,
Above it a black slab of wood
With an ornate knocker.
My hand, so pale in the fading moonlight,
Drifting over the handle.
One knock.
Two.
"What young traveller
Dares to arrive on my doorstep
And ask for escape?
Is it you,
With your eyes so haunted
And your skin so young?
You?
Best to turn back, now,
While you still have time,
For we will cross paths eventually,
And your day is not today."
His words stab me,
An oral knife in my heart.
"Yes, it is I,
The young traveller,
With haunted eyes and young skin,
And a desire for escape.
I do not wish to turn back
And face your enemy Life,
For he is cruel and unforgiving."
I watch his eyes.
Dark like my soul,
They roam my desperate face,
Wandering to the pills in my hand
And the rope around my neck.
"Alas, child,
You are too young,
But so close.
Enter quickly,
Move into my embrace,
Venture with me into oblivion."
So I do.
His arms wrap around me,
Cloaked in black and time,
And I leave the enemy Life.
YOU ARE READING
Musings of an Insomniac
PoetryJust a place to get out everything that goes through my head when I'm lying awake at night. Trust me, there's a lot. Also, a lot of it will be dark. If you're not into that stuff (or even if you are) but read this anyway, I am eternally grateful t...