History of Pain - Dark Poetry

Whispers echo from afar in a peripheral world.

They are like me, hearing the rusty hum, clever to the energy of anguish and uncontrollable tears.

Static splits the picture exploring multiple images with fractured sorrows.

A prickly breath escapes, before a forceful weightiness slithers in.

I am as if facing Medusa herself.

Suspended in time, those lives that I have lived and a reign I sense only in remembrance.

My hands are weightless rolled in glass.

In silence, my heart drops to depths unknown except by the rising flow of sluggish blood and a flinch of terror. I am encased within timeless miseries that afflict the uncounted and defeat a countless many more.

So comfortable am I in its shadow that I envision the brutality of war and feel each casualty.

I am a shining star in a mournful constellation of collected souls bound by a curse of blood.

Contemplate the suffering with blue lips, feeling the worlds’ tragedies, barely breathing at the bottom of the sea. With a hook through my gullet and salt water breath I lovingly float in a fuzzy red haze.

History always remembers the pain.

Always.