The Dross of Self

Sometimes, he sits alone.

He sits like stone,

unmoving.

His static motion masked

the commotion in his mind and

lay hidden was the turmoil of his soul.

Inside he was chaos—

falling through the liquid reflection of himself;

drowning in an ocean of an identity crisis

—as fluid memories of a self-doubting existence

whitewashed the insides of his granite façade

flushing away any chance for relief.

 

Reality was too heavy a burden.

 

He spirit struggled on the brink of collapse

striving in vain to reach a horizon of calm,

a measure of sanity.

Oppressed by reality

-thick and heavy in his lungs-

he labored in silent futility

for peace of mind.

Yet a mind finds no peace in battle;

no rest in conflict.

 

His life—

a waste to be cleansed by virtue

or burned in effigy—

passed before him.

 

With the revelations of the past, his resolve broke like shattered glass that echoed his plight. Its pieces pierced the silence after the storm.

 

Lacking the faith

which would have picked up the shards,

his cold heart laughed.

His cackle reverberated,

Shacking on the walls of his vacant soul

emptied by the flow of insecurity.

 

A shell of a man

he laughed the bare melody of nothingness

—a  hollow call that could only fall on deaf ears.

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