Pain is Personal
The abyss of this eternally enough night, Where the world swallowed an impenetrable void. Neither the sign of sun nor the spark of moon’s light Just the air humming in whispered dread and sinister glow of corpse-light . What I scream in silence, May not be heard with deaf ears but Heard and echoes in empty Cathedrals Like a hymn of shattered glass, Sung in language of wounds whispered in a tongue of fire and thorns. Is this chisel-stroke, unwanted sculptor Carved with stains deeper than blood, Was all liturgy of my own venom Or it wears your voice and shadow.? By whose design it pierces my ribcage, Making my mind a borrowed ghost Learning to haunt in safest of places, What once was proudly mine, Now stands in shameful harvest.?