Good Evening, Angel

Devastation was all to be felt.

That catastrophic feeling when the world crashes down and you become buried in the frenzied rubble of chaos, of fear, of loss. The love proclaimed in a thousand words and strained out across your life has steeped into a whirlwind oblivion. And as the sky decays in upon you, the same love that had been folded and slid away suddenly explodes in a peak of emotion and feeling. The detachment is removed and you are left with raw agony, wishing for numbness but finding only sensitized love.

The day my life caved in. The pain still resounds in the lonely recesses of my heart. Its chambers contain nothing but the overflowing love I once felt, now crawling with the seeping pestilence of loss. A bitter feeling to all who have felt. The senseless, biting remarks are lashed out by the stinging tongues of dogs disguised as humans. As the rage increases, so does the emptiness, and both vie for the opportunity to become dictator of a million pure emotions.

A gothic depression takes its hold on me, and the dark lack of color consumes me. As it eats away at my heart, the victor seeps into the dungeon of who I once was. But there is no clear victor. Only a brutal collaboration of the two. An ingenious reaction, it is both life-giving and lethal.

The dull blade finds me, and I writhe from the beauty of it. All around me, the threatening demon is closing in. I feel the breath of pure satanic wisdom on my neck, and Lucifer himself whispers. “It is finished.” The seduction overwhelms me and I find myself falling of my own volition. But before I reach the sweet serum of certain death, I am caught. I know not. I care not. The anger I fear unleashes and strikes at the least likely enemy.

All good things…. Have come to an end. I struggle. My voice calls out in the night. But nobody hears. All I know is loss. All I feel. I see it. Taste it. The stench, the sound. I know all. My one consuming passion splits my empty self, forcing in the feeling of what I wish, with no possibility of being. The brokenness makes every attempt, beginning with the trust I have always known. The written pretense of what I raced will never know to be. The first comfort of a million pieces will never realize the depth and already has.

The cryptic eyes that see only the known continue to stalk, wishing, hoping, never but always. The light breaks and the point is nothing but seen.