I Write Poetry

He blinks from smiles to frowns,
As he sways from numb to feeling,
Clutching to days gone by,
And the memories time tries stealing,

The secrets that he keeps hidden,
are the scars that he quietly bares,
Bleeding forever inside him,
From the mirror, a stranger stares,

Faith does waver in the hells he walks,
Its edge dulling upon brimstone,
Mismatched wings of feather and leather,
Upon burdened shoulders are sewn,

This poetry shrouded by shadows,
The light enveloped by dark,
Once warm bright inferno of life,
Turned a cold faded and dying spark,

He scrambles to find meaning,
In his past left far behind,
Complacent in the chaos,
With his broke and damaged mind,

He sits in quiet reflection,
Of mirrored shards and rubbled debris,
As he awaits tomorrow's coming,
And its adventure that's yet to be.