Out of the window
where my tears fall, fall, fall,
rich and ravenous am I for the salt
which is encompassed by all.
They sting my eyes,
this liquid drawn from the depths of my despair,
the lingering victimisation of my soul,
I don’t want to become air.
I feel real, more alive
when the salt water of my form stings me,
it ails my orbs,
a pair once so bitter and jaded in their viewing
of a world where I’d come undone.
There appears nothing worth saving,
a tumultuous wind untamed,
randomised about my body,
my crazed hair,
that my face is seemingly effaced,
there is no longer anything there.
Perhaps the salted tears are corrosive,
they are acidic, perchance,
I linger on the thought too long,
it seems preposterous,
and I chide myself for knowing that what I am assuming
I’m in but a daydream,
a living fantasy?
If only I wished to no longer breathe,
I’d take this nightmare with me,
allow it to launch off a precipice
and grow and bloat and steal
every living atom from me.
But then here’s the catch,
I’d have to disappear willingly,
and there is no chance of that, is there?
I can’t allow some people their dreams.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Karen Smits from Pixabay
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