The moon is caressing the oceanic blue night sky.
The crickets are in harmony with the dying buzz of this day.
Melodies of the night have come alive
As the monsters hiding under this bed.
Old ghosts are reclaiming their usual space
Even after being long forgotten like their graves
And time is on a standstill.
For a second, I am reminded.
That the voices in my head have spoken of this moment.
They have shamelessly argued over it's possibility
Behind my back.
How that there will come a time.
A moment like this.
A time when even loneliness will look over my soul with a pitiful face
Unable to stay itself.
Internal conflict will be having a field day
Working tirelessly to overthrow
Whatever little calm that has chosen to stay.
Consequently reviving the buried chaos
And resurrecting the uncultured mayhem
Ruling over my broken self.
Doubts are to reclaim a sacred throne
Left for the taking at the centre of my dying light.
It is from then, then.
I shall become the undertaker.
The walking dead.
My pens are to turn infertile before my very eyes.
Followed by inkpots then running dry.
Drier than the Sahara and her raging winds.
I would then be lost.
Lost somewhere deep in the trenches of pain and misery.
My voice would then fade from my throat like smoke dissolving into the air.
Who would then save me?
If not myself.
Braving the dragging I back to this toxic society
To learn how to live again.
To exercise breathing again.
While sunk
And now time is no longer on a standstill.
Wambuku W.
♡
thanks for sharing this!