Advice from a Tortured Soul

Whisper your sweet stories of love’s fallen desires,

To souls with unopened ears.

Litter your soul with the fragments of joy’s crashing glories,

Horde your heartache.

Oh, the heart - a swirling vortex of soiled marvel.

Query those familiar with Old Man Sorrow,

Those who have tasted enmity.

Old Man Sorrow teaches the tainted knowledge,

Bilks the ignorant and optimistic lover.

He holds the charred remnants of scorched hopes in his creased claws.

Oh, the heart - a swirling vortex of soiled marvel, burns with a sweltering passion for despair.

Blister the soul for kismet happenings.

Slake the soul’s desire for desolation,

Dispose of the glittering dustings of cherished memories.

Inevitably brutal, life is, I promise you that.

It is a callousness strengthened by fallen remedies.

Oh, the heart - a swirling vortex of soiled marvel, burns with a sweltering passion for despair,

bleeds from wounds resistant to all bandages but time.

The heart balloons with a sick satisfaction,

Let it.

The heart grapples with your nightmares,

Let it.

The heart chokes on your life,

Let it.

The heart dies.

Let it.