The Smokey mist of death, claws its way through the window of time, shattering the boundaries to which restrained it from this life.
Reaching frantically for my soul, the black hand of the reaper slices my reality, closing from me the door way to all I have come to know to be truth.
It's entrance crushing my mind, instilling a pain so deep, so unimaginable, I find I can not grasp at the things that make up humanity.
Out there on my own searching for pieces of me.
Not one can help in my endeavors, as alone they are mine.
Life pounds a rhythm that surrounds me although never touching, I see it in a clouded distance almost reachable, the elusiveness of its power alludes my presence.
Almost constantly, I am reminded of my weaknesses through the throbbing of its remains upon my cringing flesh, and those seared into my crumbling mind.
I feel as if I no longer exist, an apparition to me, I be but a walking reminder to myself that I am lost.
I step out side of this body to which I wander the Earth.
I see myself as no one sees. I want to reach out and touch, heal the wounds that run deep, yet find that not even I, who knows of each pain and hurt, can heal that which the reaper has inflicted.
I feel so alone; tears stream the length of my being, yet they heal naught my pain, a constant reminder of my fragile existence, the fragility that is apart of us all.
As a fearsome entity, he propelled himself into the realm of my world, the force of his entrance exposing me to the unknown.
I fight constantly to regain my strength beneath the black shadow of the reapers hand, but for now find I must relent to his dominance, bow to his pain, and live in his world.
The strength I thought was mine, is as elusive as the life I watch float past my conscious mind.
I see those outside looking in upon my crumbled world, with eyes of pity and hearts of sorrow. Anger wells within me. Whether it be at they, or myself, I know not. Yet it over powers all that surrounds me, fading the colours of my mind to the deepest shades of Grey's and Blacks, each one having no distinction from the other.
Of those looking in, some touch, some smile, some speak, although seeing their mouths move in speech, I hear not their words.
My hearing dissolves in their presence.
Stilted images parade themselves as slides projected on to a brick wall in disrepair. Only the blackness shines through the crumbling mortar.
Blood drips from the sharp edges, as tears forge their mark into the smooth remnants of past memories.
I try to detach myself from their constant reminder, through the mindless wanderings of everything and nothing that pertains to those images. But find that no matter where I take myself , they violently crash through, infiltrating any, and every thought, every sound, everything that is me. Taking me against my will, to places unknown, places unwanted.
Nothing is real anymore.
My thoughts are an illusion my mind brings to be. My speech is clouded by the constant lies I visualize in my consciousness. My body knots and contorts at images and thoughts, that are now part of my existence. Still the tears flow, bringing now a sadness to a heart already bruised at the loss of self .
Where did I go? I silently scream into the darkness that now surrounds me.
Will I ever be found? I cry secretly to the wall, drenching all sanity with pain, whilst closing all doors.
I lay myself upon my pillows, and drift across the dream plain, blackness being my only comfort .
I search every cavern, looking for an escape into a world that no longer exists. At every turn, the dark mist of the reaper blinds me to the pathways of forever. Whispering into the darkness as a child face to face with their terror.
"It wasn't me, it must have been another, this isn't real, it must have happened to another" then screaming. I run mindlessly through the black caverns, losing my way at every turn. I retract deeper into my mind, until I become unreachable.
In sleep, I feel my body twist into a tight ball, I feel the warmth of tears caress my face. Alone in the damp blackness I look for my help, extending my hand, blindly, searching for a touch of warmth. Occasionally something brushes against my fingertips, and for one second in time, I feel the presence of another ease my pain. But in the blinking of an eye, the blackness returns, and the reapers hand grips my still beating heart, constricting my breath, 'til I be but a shell.
Then I wake, whispering into the night, "it wasn't me".
The Smokey mist of death, claws its way through the window of time, shattering the boundaries to which restrained it from this life.
