With a humble heart and an open soul, we question why life brings blasts of tragedy to our door.
How long could the skin be battered and bruised before it lacks resilience?
Why do the constant crusted paths of salt stripe the cheeks and show under the spotlight of focus?
Are there more ways to speak the pounding of thoughts that pulse SOS to the rhythm of the word stop
Will the stinging at the quicks of the fingers ever heal from their forced intrusion of the palm where puddles of crimson sketch?
As the gathering of blood crawled beneath the eyes, around scorched wrists, and below the waist, finding ruin in the lust for audible release
Is it possible for the invisible scar tissue on the mind to become a barrier to further growth?
Maybe the moments of shattered breaths will empty the remaining lingering soul from the sharpness of the shackles of ignorance.
Perhaps there is another space to transition from consciousness to anywhere else than here.
Another silent Sun, another desperate moon with the same in between
Another sun drowns in the depths of blood, spluttering and gathering its breath, and another moon reflects the twilight of moments gone and unretrievable in the exhale.
Until…