The Corner
I waltz around the corner,
Hoping, but dreading, for something,
someone, to lift me from this ground
as I reach the depths of the sun.
Everything seems so close yet so far,
but the closer you get from coming
so far, the more the ghost of dread
looms over you like a shadow. The darkness
that looms from the regrets you've
dreaded committing but did anyway
almost to a point where the guilt
possesses you as a demon would,
causing you to sieze, writher, scream,
and beg for it all to go away. But
the mind is a record player, willing
to torture you with an endless
loop of memories which no matter
how much you turn down, the worm in
your ear continues to gnaw at your
brain, mocking your pain, whispers the
wretched curse which you have invented
like a mastermind whose invention had
gone out of control to a point
where not even the inventor could
shut them off. The only ailment
to this illness is a prescribed pill
in the shape of a bullet, which
will mend the brain down, stunt it, and
calm it down with the motherly
arms of sweet death. Or perhaps
the sun will do the trick to cure
of this burden. Who knows, as grimly,
I waltz around the corner.