Shrine of Misremembered Broken Dreams

Shrine of Misremembered Broken Dreams

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WpMetadataReadConcluída ter, nov 5, 202412m
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Poesia
I wanted to write. Without structure. Without rules. With only the whirlwind of my emotions bleeding ink -- of life, of death -- onto the canvas of my being. Thus an altar was created. A shrine to honor what was misremembered; now a dream unrealized, broken and left behind.
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Save Me

I was drowning. I knew that. I also knew that the hands around my throat, pushing me deeper into the river water was the cause. What I didn't know was who was drowning me and why. It hurt thinking. It hurt to do anything right now. But I still screamed under the cold water and pushed the hands away as hard as I could. It didn't have much effect. I fought and fought, but I was getting weaker, and colder. The pain was overbearing. I couldn't breathe. It was the worst pain imaginable; and as the hands that were around my neck were forcibly ripped off by some unknown force, I slipped deeper into the depths of the river. My hair was straight above me along with my arms. My eyes were open and the water burned. A darkness started to pull me under, taking the pain away. I felt a small pressure around my waist, before the darkness completely consumed me. The last thing I remember is thinking, save me.

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