Panic, rage, frustration, all contained by what the mirror said was a calm soul.
Sole consolation being that every bottom can be climbed out of. A mistake.
Patience a paper thin wall holding back despair, urging to wake.
The bottom welcomes as a maiden does her long lost lover. Shackles to doubt.
Despair thrives, fueled by realization that it is self to blame.
The battle for sanity ensues, feeding off wistfulness for when all seemed mellow.
Hide primitively iron thick, pierced with shards of pain and remorse.
Self indulges in blame, and despair burns bright. The soul a grotesque reply from the mirror.
A way out, but where? Doom seems facile enough, but not as gratifying. Self yearning castigation.
Reality seeps in. A relentless drubbing to isolate self and blame. But will either yield?
Spent. Yet not spent. Hope nothing but a flickering light which you wish to grasp.
No anger. No joy. No regret.
No emotion. Has the abyss sapped all?
Or was it all left behind before the fall?
lwasabad 