Between Prologue and Epilogue

Black and white guilt
Painted across a blank life
Caught in a time loop
Carving dreams with a blunt knife.
My shadows dance in the darkness
Under the numbed night skies
The soul still craves solace
In those eyes filled with lies.
The crimson pool has now turned blue
Reality slowly becomes untrue
Plagued by the existence
Loneliness has become an essence.
I tightly bandage by wounds
Calming the ghosts inside my mind
There are some cravings for empathy
There are some with who I sympathise,
I have choked a few with my weeping words
But few feed on them,
Playing on my anxieties
Singing to my worries
Screaming to my woes
Silences they condemn.
In the corner, I sit and I lament
Refusing to speak to anyone anymore
My stories shall fade away as a myth
Poetry mixed with prose,
With an end before the beginning
Inked with hopeless metaphors
Veiled in forgotten dust
Stained with filthy moss and rust.
Maybe there will come a day,
The breeze blowing the dandelions
Will carry melodies of the deceased cries
Maybe there will come a day,
You pass by my abandoned grave
And pluck the rose for you that arise.
Till then my story shall remain incomplete,
Trying to fit between prologue and epilogue
Trying to fit between the pious and the unholy,
As I still question the purpose of this being.
How much grief is supposed to be melancholy?

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