Cry Wolf and Speak Truth

Rusted are the doors that lock themselves shut by the orders of my hesitant tongue, how it twists with my mood and delivers words away from my racing thoughts. I feel ergo, a lightlessness shadow climbing up the vertebrae, feeding of the chills it brings me as it ascends. Oh, God and all of Heaven, brush that Devil away lest it rip the spine and replace it with a pitchfork. I have seen my demons in the back of my mind, dwelling in dark corners with my temptations and flaws...those are the demons of that legion of swine sent over the edge...the very edge where I feel I am headed.

In the adolescence of a nocturnal routine, I sit with eyes off into space, while time wrinkles my roads and the tests continue ever by seconds. Have I perhaps reached that edge, and realized at the point of no return that I hang from it by the very threads of my of empathy? Faith is never lost, yet my mind is another tale of horror that writes itself upon the gray of my brain, seeping in through every crack as I attempt to grasp peace by the ankles. Sweet imagery, do me justice in the cries for help, that a boy crying wolf would lack the prowess for. My knees are worn from their begging just as that tongue is weary of all speech but prayer.

It is here, just a few steps beyond square one, that I sit thinking through pressed letters, that perhaps I am doomed should I continue on this path in particular. It leads only to a rusted door, whose locks are beyond repair, that I would need to muster energy to forced ajar. Judge me that your eyes would say that I complain and not much else, I care so little for the tired man in the mirror, where the bare minimum I find and keep from apathy is for loved ones who printed their names on my heart, so for them I carry on with whatever this burden is, on my shoulders.