Another Asylum

The mirror, consistent bystander, a defiled savior that returns
An arid eyeful of the misery masquerading in skin
The promises, unturned in the ragged nails
Of hands amongst the worn blades, desiccated with blood.
Night prefaced by sleep endeavors to hold a zephyr to never wake
Keeping a window parsed with misguiding lexis when solitary
Escapism writes itself on panes in palls of a routed exhale
The walls, sordidly stained with parody of preaching truths
Openhanded to the sheer erosion of missing self misuse
And as the dawn reveals the path out redemption’s door
The fetter of morning’s mourning reminds its prisoner of its tethered grip
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Guilty worded pleasures..

That feeling of standing in a cold bathroom at 5 in the morning, fascinated and yet repulsed by ones own reflection and revering existentiality. Yep, very well conveyed.

LOve, Sel.