Hope

I hope that I

do not look back

when I’m old and grey

with disdain

for a life

well wasted.

I hope that this

is not

a mistake.

I hope I’ve not

made too many

wrong turns

to find my way

home.

I hope that this

is not for nothing.

I hope.

I hope.

 

Ego

The mind rests in mourning,

like soft mildew in the fog of winter.

Finally aware of the dark seed within it.

A seed which has sprouted, spread, and tangled throughout;

growing like a tumour;

a cancerous, malignant, destructive web of black;

tightening its grip around the mind –

in an attempt to defend the very thing of which it destroys.

The monstrous seed sits inconspicuously;

powerfully;

at the centre –

pulsating.

Conducting with ease the orchestra of its lifeless musicians.

Stare.

Stare at fear itself.

It does not want to die.

Die.

Die.

Die.