Journal entry : 3
14/5/18
Simply a poem today.
FREE SPIRIT
Every door that I wanted, opens to more of my lies.
Late I find my home is haunted by ghosts of my own device.
Will there be any solace for these cursed, rust-covered bones?
Or are they stuck restless, in a maze of mortar and stones:
Twisted and contorted, like my own demented mind.
With despair as distorted as every latch that I find.
A prison of my own making, within familiar halls
and only the past for the taking for us; selfmade thralls,
left to wander without aim and devoid of devotion.
Infinite hours; all the same, and I, are all that is in motion.
I shall so cloak myself in time, as she flees from our house
and the wrath that the crime committed by her spouse,
in this godforsaken compound, from the heavens has called.
I pray she does not turn around, lest like tears she turns to salt.
I miss her life and her heat, like her perfume all of which fade
under the echoes of the feet of not even a man but a shade:
A spectre that can never again be, that to which she has right.
Instead a spirit now carefree, and bound to wandering at night.
A monster not worthy of touch, and less still of her love.
One who has done far too much, and yet not once enough.
14/5/18
Simply a poem today.
FREE SPIRIT
Every door that I wanted, opens to more of my lies.
Late I find my home is haunted by ghosts of my own device.
Will there be any solace for these cursed, rust-covered bones?
Or are they stuck restless, in a maze of mortar and stones:
Twisted and contorted, like my own demented mind.
With despair as distorted as every latch that I find.
A prison of my own making, within familiar halls
and only the past for the taking for us; selfmade thralls,
left to wander without aim and devoid of devotion.
Infinite hours; all the same, and I, are all that is in motion.
I shall so cloak myself in time, as she flees from our house
and the wrath that the crime committed by her spouse,
in this godforsaken compound, from the heavens has called.
I pray she does not turn around, lest like tears she turns to salt.
I miss her life and her heat, like her perfume all of which fade
under the echoes of the feet of not even a man but a shade:
A spectre that can never again be, that to which she has right.
Instead a spirit now carefree, and bound to wandering at night.
A monster not worthy of touch, and less still of her love.
One who has done far too much, and yet not once enough.
"If we go down, we go down together!"
- Your mum, last night, suggesting 69.
![[Image: 41bebac06973488da2b0740b6ac37538.jpg]](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/41/be/ba/41bebac06973488da2b0740b6ac37538.jpg)
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- Your mum, last night, suggesting 69.
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