It returns, like a lost parcel
Wrapped in black, quietly unfolding
In the shadowy corners of the room.
Until sick hands creep from the cage, grip,
Wend, and wind around my heart,
And throw disease across passion’s bed.
Like an anchor that keeps a wreckage afloat,
It tars my ocean, wraps its chains of doubt,
And strengthens old ligatures that bind.
Mired with all reasons lost,
I will surrender to these cruel, soundless woods,
For fighting does no good.
© 2016 Occasional Dreams