shambling souls, rambling prose

As organic robots we're left to wander,
veins pulsing with whiskey vices and the acrid smoke of self destruction,
we carry a sort of unquenchable and melancholy thirst for meaning.

Ravenous Poets, desperate for magic, hungry for divinity,

we call love holy because the truth is far too bitter,
I begrudgingly confess that too often as tragic as it is to admit,
more often than not it's nothing more than frightened animals
scrambling to not die alone.

The hands of the clock pound like hammers,
each tick and tock sending tremors through our marrow.
Be it the fists of god or boots of the devil,
time shapes us all the same.
Our souls fold like Damascus steel,
layer upon layer of suffering and ecstatic joy,
compressing us into things both terrible and beautiful.
Our patterns invisible until the acid of experience
reveals the truth of what we've become.

Our stories etched into the margins of all the things we do not say.

Night falls like a guillotine, severing the spine.
separating today from tomorrow,

Day breaks like a mirror shattered across the floor,
reflecting fragments of what might have been.

Empty bottles scattered like fallen soldiers
who died in a frivolous battle.
perished in a midnight war
waged against my inner demons.