by Nyla W., 13
He drowns himself;
Engrossed in the books of yellow plague and ebony birds who wreak havoc on man’s soul
His eyes travel over yonder of pages and words.
But such he never speaks of,
Just dribbles drops of water,
Above his raw lips.
Thirsty for salvation.
His wife says phrases,
That strip him of his sanity
That when he is driven into an agonizing slumber,
He doesn’t lock the door.
He submerges himself in the fictional worlds;
Of madness and mystery.
Strange man and sane demon are whisked upon the musty page.
The distinguished smell of burned paper and old food fill his house.
Hands of dry and cracked flesh cover his lonely face,
As anxiety creates a film over his soul.
Hath god had any mercy on his discreet and distraught soul?
For ages and decades he lived in the solemn presence of hell,
And yet his heart so thin of paper had been grown from an oak tree
Who stood tall but produced no fruit.
By day and by night he stood in utter despair,
Clacking what he had left of nails against the mirror,
As if to break it
And he said,
“even years of bad luck,
Would be better than my current state.”
Bridge Ink 