Inside this tin shell, there is no heaven or hell, just a void, a dark space inside, where my soul goes to hide, it feels so long ago that this inside died, leaving no trace, only ice, in this dark place. I looked long ago for life in this deserted cell, but, found only my heart, cold as ice, cryogenic island hanging in the vastness of this empty shell, no stories will it tell.
Before the wasteland; came the anger, the hurt, the torment that had nowhere to venture, but ripped the inside as it sat and cried. Made the mojo go, feelings come and go like a yo-yo. Slowly drifting, running out, leaking feelings, all over the place, until there are no more to seep onto the floor, just a heart to seize and freeze.
Contemplate a thaw, to open that door and let those demons and feelings return to this tin shell start to burn and swell, to thaw my heart making a fresh start, new blood racing to my heart. Yet deep within, it knows not how to fill the void, can’t let go of how life has always been. Deep inside, where darkness and claustrophobia reside, there will always be a space so wide, full of darkness, for me to hide.
© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017
Rhythm of the Ink 