The Walk

Tortured spirits bellow. The wretched place gives up its cries. Contorted faces stare intently through the soul with wide eyes. Zombie like figures through muffled cries, point with apprehension to where the toxic billows rise. The blue skies turn grey; the smoke overtakes the sunlight and all is covered in darkness. A red ribbon is caught up in the foul wind and swallowed by it. My lamp is heavy and my kerosene is low. Shadowy figures move in and out of the smoke filled darkness to and fro. The unbearable sounds of anguish go up into the clouds and are infused with the toxic smoke. The stench of it reeks; the sounds of sadness and unfulfilled dreams cause me to weep. The darkness inhales the smoke and is euphoric in its exhale. It is intoxicated with the sounds of suffering. The earth is heavy with the saturated tears of the oppressed. The oceans roar in anger and the earth’s core erupts. Measured steps are taken, lest I fall into perpetuity. Crows fly overhead en masse. The realm is turned into black pitch. The treacherous bridge swings and sways as I attempt to walk over the abyss. Save my dimly lit lamp, I am blind in the darkness. Crippling apprehension fills the void. I am consumed in desolation. I recite the works of Dickinson and Poe. With heaviness of heart, I will write works of my own torment and sorrow. I will walk in the dark and horrid place and blend in with the shadows, in hopes that hopelessness won’t know.

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