Descendence

There is an anguish within. A descodance of a sound that is twirling in an echo of a black hole. I had hid the pain beneath a pretense that it is all okay. The reality of which is that the decay is taking place and rotting into a mountainous heap of waste. 

Ever so once in a while I find my creations in a demolition mode. In deconstructing, the pieces are flying out of the window and landing onto the cement floor in broken pieces of glass. 

I had been breaking glasses and cutting my fingers by accident. When blood pools on the surface wound of my skin, I know the decay is no longer metaphysical but it is happening. My internal descondence state had taken over my being and is on a rampage to self destruct. 

In the échos I tried to scream his name. But there are no saviours. I am trapped in a tower with spiral stairs that lead to the grey clouds.

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