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.?

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