season in hell

Here in front of the looking glass I stand,

my vulnerability reflected back

on my stinging, weeping eyes.

Behind me, my shadow;

the darkest recesses of my soul

open like a mortal wound.

The life races out of me

as I watch my chest rise

with each breath

and become more and more aware

of the mechanics of my essence.

I long to shed

the mortal reality of this existence

and to journey back

amid the souls

that have come before

and will go after.

Then, and only then,

will I learn the consequences

of my particular bargain,

and I will join the others like me

and we will wait

with breathless anticipation

the arrival of those like us.


Cut me now and I will bleed;

cut me then and I will wail

under the burden of truth.

Hate me now and I will despair;

hate me then and I will merely contemplate

the meaning of such incidentals

as emotions.

The cold glass cracks under

the heat of my rage

and I am left in pieces,

broken and battered.

This is our season in hell.

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