‘Tiss a strange thing, is it not?
Being drawn into despair.
The timely sensation comes when one is most alone.
It is there to remind you of your vulnerabilities, weaknesses, mortality.
Yet it is the very thing that makes us fearless.
The emptiness, like the churning stomach in need of substance.
The resentment, a mocking voice within holds you prisoner.
A deranged captor tormenting the kept.
Reach out and touch vise; reach within and think thrice.
The low howl of the nightly wretch cry on.
The dull drums of deaths nigh sincerely sung.
A yearning for salvation is met with apathy.
As you once had turned your back on the world, so they in turn you.
