Hath time been an enslaved dove I keep chained in the chamber,
My bidding an edict etched in stone for its survival,
It would fly to the cinematic moments I lack the strength to delete
The photographs I speak to night after endless night,
So I would stop myself from feeling I finally belonged.
To moments so I would hold my tongue from giving away a thousand hidden sentiments.
I would scream at myself, think, think for your mind is but a padded lock,
Think, you fool, for you know it is but a masquerade.
I would cry a thousand tears at once
to not have enough for the single drops that fall for a thousand nights.
I would inflict enough wounds on myself to be numb to the fight.
Numb, for I am numb now to every star every thunder,
My soul embracing the deep slumber.
Beauty is dead, my sorrow is a vacant stinging hollow.