Sweep Your Regrets Under the Rug.
I don’t know when it was,
That this gentle thread snapped in my web,
That this torrent of boiling fear spilt from the goblet
And drenched me head to toe.
Like an ostrich, I bury my head in the sand,
Hiding my wretched face from the burning flare,
Reality has become so trivial a concept
And I cease to demarcate the living and the dead.
A battered corpse, I trudge along this path,
Oblivious to the birds which tear at my seared flesh,
Slowly decaying, slowly leaving this place
But not for anywhere else.
And every day I convince myself the next
Will be a profound shift,
A new age
Of shining knights and dragons slain.
But the burning never ends.