The Far and Wide

The clock sits drowning with
its hands behind its back.
There at the feet of a broken man,
fetal below the essence of life.

A mind lost, staring through gaping
eyes of a catatonic gaze,
awaiting the recoil of recovery as
the soul reaches high and blind.

Past cracked windows of a broken
stare out from where the conflicted
mind tears itself apart,
piece by piece and thought by thought.

Many, a great deal have been
the words I've written as to express
this Hell I've yet to conquer,
as such a Hell is far and wide.

Time only shall tell the tale of roads ahead,
where further hills grow and dwell...
but the hills are nothing new
to the man beneath the essence of life.