My eyes grow so very heavy. My knees weak as the frail branches of a dying tree. All sound around has been muffled and distorted. All voices which were once heard are now a mesh of low octive notes in the symphony of my mind. The ground in which I stand ever changing and snatching me down in its pool of quicksand. I see nothing but shades of gray beyond these two eyes that I can no longer trust. Feeling has left my body and soul torn asunder in the wake of this tragedy. Sometimes, being trapped in this place, I can feel the cold breath of the Angel of Death kiss softly against my skin. Not a kiss of death to speak as the world knows it to be, but a sweet surrender unto life for Death does not want me. It only shows me that I don't have all the time in the world.
Reason for writing:
This is #1 in a two-part series.
Birth sign: Scorpio
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Charles Mathew Tyner III.