Lost Love, Lost Self, Lost Life

Crush my heart. End the misery.
As does the Earth to a pebble
dropping from the heavens above.
Hope is vaporized in an instant as
quickly as we see the tiny bright
illuminating star, which upon
drawing closer–ceases to be.

Rocking to and fro, unique but to myself…the hospital staff observes but from a polite distance. I whimper, when I think one is near to hear. I hold my breath until I might faint. Sweating, lips parted, I gasp until one comes to mop my brow and gently place wet swabs by which I draw water past my lips.

I’m running as fast as I can,
the crowd is screaming, streaming
behind my desperate wake. Frightened, I look not left nor right but run, run, run. I try to remember–if you are right handed run to the left. Never…I feel the pain in my back and
stumble forward. The crowd catches me and begin to pummel my face and body with fists, sticks, the odd brick.
I’m dying from the blood flow out of my back. What, do you mean
“burn the Warlock, burn the Warlock, burn the Warlock”–as I drift off to sleep.


One thought on “Lost Love, Lost Self, Lost Life

  1. Reblogged this on 21 Shades of Blue and commented:
    Violence begets violence. Christ said, ““Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.”

    “In The Valley Of The Waters”
    by Lord Byron

    In the valley of the waters we wept o’er the day
    When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey,
    And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
    And our hearts were so full of the land far away.

    The song they demanded in vain–it lay still
    In our souls as the wind that died on the hill;
    They called for the harp–but our blood they shall spill
    Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of our skill.

    All stringlessly hung on the willow’s sad tree,
    As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be;
    Our hands may be fetter’d–our tears still are free,
    For our God and our glory–and, Sion!–Oh, thee.


    “By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up our lyres. For there our captors required of us songs, and our tormentors, mirth, saying, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!” How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land? If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill! Let my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth, if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy! Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem, how they said, “Lay it bare, lay it bare, down to its foundations!” O daughter of Babylon, doomed to be destroyed, blessed shall he be who repays you with what you have done to us! Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock!”
    — Psalm 137

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