madameATP

The bottle sits there in its hand The voice is soft and low Just one more time, it says this time Like all the times before They'll never understand, it breathes I'm the only one who cares Its breath pervades my senses Its fingers on my throat

The fields I once nurtured, lush and green and bright Stand dry, howling and barren below the pale moonlight Ideas like little fish, still glistening in her hollow gaze Quickly die and wash ashore in the bone yard of old ways A man bows his head above closed, defensive arms The fields are untilled, a figure spreads salt as he hums

Grey skies slither in like tendrils of a restless ghost. I stand guard on a hill, feeling the cold wind burn my cheeks. I step inside. The wind whips against the glass and I must return to help those flattened in the gusts. And as I step out I am flung into the current. Tossed about like a rag doll in the never ending twisting river of human misery. And I think. What's the point? What is the point of all this misery? So I ask, often pointlessly; what can I do? Pointless because I never get an answer. I cannot hear what the soft unused voices say between rasping sobs. Eventually I give up. I no longer think. I no longer ask. I lose