Emptiness

How is it possible to feel so empty without one singular person?

This isn’t psychology; there is nothing – not chemistry, biology, no feature-less science – in explaining the gaps of the soul; when life is lost – or loss – this way, the only remainder is tears, and the only explanation heartache.

Music has fallen beyond conciliation. Look at me, in the darkness moonlight hides: I bottle humiliation and sell it to its highest bidder. My auxiliary charms are forced behind a scarlet smokescreen of stagelights, Super Trooper bulbs.

But that was the majesty of a single eye – a pair can search, and they can find the secrets, the inner things, better. Now a thousand eyeballs float above mine with no grounding, and they scour hope and punish love – though that is not a new alienation. I was always a five-footed monster with rat-like hair and buck-teeth.

I thought I was. The change is hard to swallow, soup and broken glass. Or a book I’ve not read for time.

Another one said as well: “Ship to shore – do you read me anymore?” Send me indeed a beacon to bring me back home, to a world I once knew, not marred by my own hatred of my own kind. I have forgotten why I first fled my own kind, of blackguards and ignorant frantics. But now I fritter my hours and procrastinate with those I once threw my hand from.

Oh, how can the world be so much duller than it was a mere three years previously?

And how can skin be so cold when the mind has fire? Or, are those two more than compatible – so much so that humanity forgets their allegiances and their serenity? Impossibly – the days tumble over each other, with no other thoughts than their typical passage of time. But time, with its bumps and eddies – and its repeated phrases – doesn’t play fair, just as she never cast her hands equally.

Forgive me, for I have sinned again, beyond Your very word, and yours, too. I swore myself to the chastity of keeping my anger within his shell. But these strangers, they rile me, especially in such a proximity, and with such titles; none have ever bore or supplanted the real emotions sparkling through the ether.

If one is to believe of a second layer between the gaps of Heaven and Earth. But these ideas are not incompatible, are they? Ghosts and Saints. And Lords. He will rise, and we will be judged at an equal pace. Your grace and me – and them. At an equal.

I know I am a fool, a dumb fool. They do not need to spell out such words.

But I am worse to wish their pain.

Revenge was such a fiendish, black idea, but she has haunted me since my youth, and I shall never be rid of her talons in my side and in shaping my chest, and in my very eyes when goodness looks with hope. Maybe my soul really has charred.

I sometimes wonder if this, far from being built on false hopes, is itself false hopes, and a false entity to swarm the psyche. I am a stereotype and I have a number of my conformity: your eyes are deceptive pools, withholding life, yet keeping the oceans turning – one day more. My videos of Eric Clapton have curled at their edges like the pictures within my solely photographic mind, and my wonderful tonight has a stretch of melancholic black intruding its moonlit heart.

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