Sometimes, he sits alone.
He sits like stone,
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.
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.