Its Father Frank’s living purgatory
The long day that seems to never end.
Unable to get out of your own way,
The crowded Neitherworld waiting room with no shrunken heads or witty discourse
Just the cold embrace of the truth and the mirror staring back at you.
Lost are the gentile days of long mornings and easy talks.
Swallowed and regurgitated,
The endless cycle with too many parts in the coward to find the easy way out.
The mind tears itself in two when it eats itself,
Holding thoughts in diametric opposition that crush all others under its weight.
The grime of yesterday never gets clean,
Its slow movements spreading across your thoughts touching each in turn.
The quite voices pick once again,
To many years in the darkness has left them hungry,
A life of feeding the wrong wolf.
Feelings don’t become words they are clobbered into submission and in the cross analysis do not stand up to scrutiny.
The counterbalance to logic is relentless,
Needing no sustenance, it feeds of itself only growing stronger off your weakness.
Enduring hopes lock ever opens;
It has no key only apparitions pointing to lonely roads.
I envy the ability in some to surrender to life,
But that learned behavior dies quick under the boot of years of conditioning.
What is the future
When the present is the past
And the past is a nightmare.
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