I wake, as the clock strikes one,
my dark eyes opening to the sun.
But as my skin glimmers pale,
I can feel the light is stale.
YOU ARE READING
Stygian. Stagnant. Solitary.
PoetryDarkness. Stillness. Loneliness. Three hells, amassed within the contents of a human skull to torture the mind. Artistically speaking, they are the kerosene that keeps the fire of poetry alive. Consciously, they're traumatically destructive.
