The Residue Of Sorrow
Sometimes you think you’re free of your past—only to find out you’re not.
Nothing is as it seems. I live in an illusion, and dust covered screams. Animation within this existence is poignant and exquisite, harrowing in its severity.
A burning, searing flame engulfs me in a feverish plague. Haunted—euphoric in the rapture of melancholy. Weeping within the catastrophe. Lamenting—mourning amongst dusk—the twilight of dawn.
The origin of descent, a landslide of affliction—a grievance of blood, conjuring the eternal curse—bewitched within the antiquated stage.
I am a relic of despair. An heirloom of desecration. The residue of sorrow. A token of a verdict—the ordinance of perpetuity.
I am bound with the hands of time, contracted and imprisoned—tap dancing in circles around the confines of my reality.
Pieces like this are the literary equivalent of extremely detailed visual or sculpted works where you can really look closely and say, "Good God, the artist is so talented!"
The primordial forces of your emotions and the power of your words are testimony to the strength of your spirit.
It is true. We can never break free from our past. At the same time we are also timeless beings, dancing in the infinite spheres of eternal existence. Nothing is as it seems, including the landslide of affliction, and the heirloom of desecration. We are not broken or defined by our past. It is not who we are. This is not who YOU are, dear soul sister.
Your experience is your creative medium. You are transforming it into life giving fuel, by calling out the evil you have witnessed. You are in the process of transforming your experience of that past. with love and admiration for your resilience 💗🙏