The soot behind the eyes is where I stopped scrolling. Soot is what's left once the burning is over, so the whole poem reads like the morning after, and somehow that sits heavier than a fire would.
sowing hope in barren soil.
Thought
Thought
The soot behind the eyes is where I stopped scrolling. Soot is what's left once the burning is over, so the whole poem reads like the morning after, and somehow that sits heavier than a fire would.
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To feel, once again, like you are dying while still alive.
To spin, once again, in a tortuous, circular routine day after day,
sowing hope in barren soil.
It is time to surrender.
It is time to be unable to even shipwreck.
It is time to serve yourself up as a meal
for whatever dwells within the fissures of your own darkness.
It is time.
Behind your eyes, only soot remains.
Nothing but the distant, tar-like flicker
amidst a stretch of total darkness,
and an isolation that refuses to relent.
The horror you felt upon finding yourself alone
in the middle of the road—
that is your truth,
that is your reality.
Thoughts
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The soot behind the eyes is where I stopped scrolling. Soot is what's left once the burning is over, so the whole poem reads like the morning after, and somehow that sits heavier than a fire would.
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The road at the end turns the whole thing round for me. All that circling day after day, then suddenly a straight road with nobody on it. Feels like the circle was the safer of the two.
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Not even being allowed the wreck, only the circling, sounds heavier than sinking would. I stayed on that part a long time and read the whole thing twice because of it.
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To feel, once again, like you are dying while still alive.