Friday, February 20, 2009

killing Me softly

Through the murky corridor,

brushing aside the webs,

he totters along; injured.

The pain, blood oozing out.

The scars, darkened, neglected,

screaming for attention;

skin, peeling off.

The journey begins again.

A knife, broken, blunt at the edge,

held tightly in his hand.

Intent,  a score to settle.

Pressing it deeper, an inch a time.

Slower the penetration,

a prospect to experience;

thicker the stream of blood,

faster, it is over.   

-

He does not feel alive till he kills himself...slowly...each day...