The voice of the lead singer is blasting through my ears as I raise the volume on my
b-box,
the voices of the others become a murmur of thoughts,
the rhythm of the song’s hymns capture me
and I am enslaved in the hypnosis of music.
My world is enclosed within my simple thoughts,
like water running from it’s mother,
slips straight down into your crevasse.
Insanity is my pillow,
my comfort food is nails in molded milk,
The mind of a tortured soul goes only so far.
Suffering is personal.
Another does not know the depths of another,
The soul is only half and the mind is enough.
The heart sometimes does not exist.
Tragedy is forever impersonal,
A drop of poison will fall into the vase,
And flow into the cups of others,
Drip,
By drip,
By drip,
Through a tiny fractured chip.
Distractions lead to inevitable suffering that which leads to devastation.
The song fades out,
and around me are the bodies of my fellow friends,
cold, unfeeling,
who weren’t murmuring, but screaming from sir death, my other good friend.