How can I be a thing of grace and beauty once all my energy is given away by healing others, and all that is left is a tormented, worn soul plagued by migraine’s burning neurology – disallowed from disconnecting for rebooting after a day’s triumph?
Higher purpose forces writhing remnants forward through darkened hell-fire streets where gaiety is a facade passing before me – noted, but unfelt, when all that is left is limping, throwing it’s dwindling strength against entropy.
Complete the tasks ever mounting. Drag thine scourgeous remains into battle. Hack at hydra-atic vines beyond weariness of ashes’ bones.
Chop…Claw…Maim – or there’s no tomorrow – muttering out loud to one’s self and shrieking in ire’s consternation.
Sleep deprivation magnifies flaws in a soul once considered worthy…
Candid Corvid Productions 