Photo by Ai Nhan on Unsplash
Shutting the door on the past,
it's tough.
All the memories resurface,
nowhere to hide.
Those internal wounds ache and sting,
a daily torment.
I hold scolding rocks,
pleading for a sliver of faith,
nowhere to turn,
caught in the chaos of their works.
Everything, everyone, halted.
The present lost all meaning,
like some cold scientific equation,
mixed with other chemicals.
This reaction needs time
to fully bloom
on the surface, suffocated,
where only I exist, alone.
---
Thank you for reading!
About the Creator
Moon Desert
UK-based
BA in Cultural Studies
Crime Fiction: Love
Poetry: Friend
Psychology: Salvation
I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still.
Sylvia Plath
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