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Giving words to my experience of sorrow, and how I coped with it in my writing. |
It is not the hoary visions that come, While within the confines of my slumber, That stir up such emotions of raw dread; Nor is it the fantastic phantasms, Which nightmare haunt, and hell hath issued forth, That grip my soul with icy, gnarled claw; But rather, it is the spirits that come While I wake, while I work, while I amble Through the motions that comprise the daily Life which I, although not wholly by my own, Have created for myself to abide, That rend my heart and subsume me into Their nebulous nature, where nihilism Is my only comfort, for within its Empty embrace I find mirrored my own Sense of futility, warped by the pain I bear from drinking life’s poisoned potion. When I am thus assaulted by phantoms, Whose countenances are wholly unknown, Yet are not any the less abhorrent, I am left with but one recourse with which I may respond to their faceless horror, To their nameless dread, to their formlessness Which but serves to multiply and compound The abominable affect upon The very fibers of my innermost Being, I pour forth great torrents of words, With hope that within their cathartic gush Those things that have taken up residence, In the precious places I hold private, Will be expunged back into the ether, Which beyond my senses lies still, and holds The empty expanse of eternity. |