The Pen

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: 'The Odd Ones'
Trapped within a prison created by man. Trapped within a prison created by yourself. Facing the ugliness of death and the uncertainty of life. Struggling to remain a person.

Submitted: July 15, 2015

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Submitted: July 15, 2015

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The Pen

I sit alone at night by the sill

the cool air hanging still

with the right kind of chill

the hairs on my arms raise in a shrill

force that sends my senses climbing to the hills.

The Poe waits patiently for its next passenger of the road,

The Passenger waits patiently for the Poe to spring the goad.

 

The clock chimes twelve times while their hands reached through the cell

the mind drifts away into the abyss before the break of day.

The rattle of the cages stirs awake their sleeping patients

and the eyes stare, forever watching, never blinking.

Haunting!  Haunting!

Reflections, inflections, humility of the naive

all circling around the well of gravity.

 

So it's swallowed, we're hallowed, our lives are stripped away

the day drags on and the light continues to fade.

We're friends to the alloy that keeps us safe at night.

We're carcasses to the garbage men.  They stack our bodies high.

 

These premonitions are derived

from the self-inflicted cuts that I've

dug into my skin for life

with the help of a warm fire and a sharp knife.

A glass of water half-full sits on the table now,

a glass of water half-empty falls and shatters on the ground.

 

My memories fade like a body to the grave

we are no ego, no right, just the cold floor and a night.

We have no heartbeat.

We live a second-rate life.

 

I've drift away too slowly

insanity has its hold on me

a servant I am lowly.

Lo and behold the gift has been bestowed to thee.

Hand in hand the mourners rejoice in their searing praises

the echoes of descendants break their vows.  The promise erases.

 

The clock chimes twelve while their hands reached through the cell

the mind drifts away into the abyss before the break of day.

The rattle of the cages stirs awake their sleeping patients

and the eyes stare, forever watching, never blinking.

Haunting!  Haunting!

Reflections, inflections, humility of the naive

all circling around the well of gravity.

 

The bell tolls, an echo flanks the cityscape

the cry of a man at the end of his last day.

Darkness falls, the lights dim to black

my body is ravaged, my soul tormented.  There's no coming back.

 

I'll never return again, I'll never leave the pen.


© Copyright 2017 Jeff Bezaire. All rights reserved.

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