Tangerine, rose-lilac skies and unfinished couplets,
Birthdays and songs, books and leaves,
Color palettes and heavy perfumes,
They are all supposed to mean something to you.
So why don’t they?
When you push and push all of it inside, inhuming and cladding it with your hard gray obstinate cement of a mind,
how long before it all cracks, comes undone, and engulfs you?
How many decades before you are deprived of the last modicum of sanity?
How many years before that being of yours, driven by rage and abhorrence, stops functioning?
How many more months before those barren red rimmed eyes in your mirror stop repulsing you?
How many weeks before you know, that the half left, is vile and unworthy of the war you wage to keep it alive every single day?
How many more coups and crashes of the waking hours will it take for you to find your unvarnished self?
How many more words to be written, sentences to be stringed and pages to be scribbled before the ache halts?
How many more lives need to be ravaged before you know that your vision is cast only as far and deep as your torment resides?
How many spoils will it take for you to fully discern the fiend that you are?
In the wake of water scrubbing the dirt off your feet,
what if all you witness is a smuttier and uglier remanant?
What of the grime filled nugatory chasms that you filled with hope which for a split second warmed you from within yet left you naked, raw and cold?
How long before you are jaded and bludgeoned to give in, before you rip yourself apart and cease to exist?
For the spirits await to rejoice,
Terra firma awaits extrication from your filth,
And the zephyr awaits to serve the pure.
So how long before you save yourself and all of them, from you?