Death Rattle

In dead slumber I see a light off in the distance.
  It plagues me.
         The distance is ever growing while the light is strangled dimmer and dimmer.
Trudge, oh how I must always trudge while dreaming ‘mares at night.
         Toes pruned by the leaking moisture in my boots. Socks soaked with feet frozen. Oh, to be dry between winter and spring.

In time, that feels much longer then it is I can only drift in the minutes that feel like day on end.
         I live under a torrent of false hope.
         There is nothing stable to be attained here.
    What once was a light is now my love and then in my hatred. No matter the situation my longing never feigns.
         Only this heart could long for what it despises.
                   When it was bipolar from birth.

In the daylight the world is heather grey. Unable to maintain my head’s height nor a level of interest.
         Sinking and bobbing like the real and rod. Now I do not want just sleep, I want comatose.
                   One day runs into the next without any real space between. This can’t be healthy.

There is always a soundtrack playing in my head. Like the melodies of sirens disguised under the cloak of angels. I draw ever nearer to the sound, unable to heed any warning I would sooner have thought of from stories of times past.
         This cannot end well for me.

Every time my eyes close and then open I find myself in a different scape of reality and fiction. Ones inhabited by mythic creatures and others by my closest of friends.
         These places cannot be real.

Continuing to trudge, my pace quickens from event to the next, seemingly endless. All I know now is sleep.
         Or at least what my body wants me to think is sleep. Crimson begins to leak into my mind.
                   Blood red slowly coats the world around me. But why?
Have I been here all this time or has my hourglass finally run dry?
         I know either way I cannot let go of what I have to hold onto.
                   But what is that anyway besides a pile of matter?

The wagons are circled on my life; I make my stance, staggered, and draw up the defense.
                   The sound of hooves and wails are coming from everywhere. I hear them beckon and call me in their loud cries. Calling for me to come home, beckoning for me to be one with them. I cannot give in. This is not my fate.

Where am I? It is calm now. There was supposed to be a harsh battle amongst the gone and not gone. My life hanging in the balance and yet there is only silence now. I plead out to anything omnipotent to provide safety and comfort but nothing comes.
                   Only my despair is reached, and it is reached quickly.
                             Tears pour from my eyes now.

I have been plundered, I have been pillaged and I have been found wanting of the gravest sins.
I am so sorry.

There is no book showing your life, no right and wrong of the good and bad of what you did.
                   There is only a slow, calm, cold reality that this, this IS IT.

Why must the world be so cold? The vacuum of space only makes a harsh reality even worse. Time is numbered and I am next in line. My appointment with destiny came and went only to leave me asking more questions. There is nothing that can be gotten now.

So I drift on, forever and ever, looking for nothing, feeling proud of nothing. This is it.

For a writer to meet his demise and not find a powerful conclusion that can be everlasting is more than bittersweet, it is tasteless! Like the darkest of black comedies and the most brutal of horror films. I want more, I realize now…I WANT LIFE!

I taste the taste on my lips, the last taste I will ever remember, ever long for and ever want to dream of. Hers was all I knew and now I have nothing more left to take and she has nothing to give it to. I am long gone.

For if I had loved you, then you would never have known it. I was far too fragile to let you know. For this crime I am sorry.
                             Signed,
                             The Author.