Broken Stanza, No. 62
My life is a poem of broken stanzas.
The space outside the doors bangs with muffled pleads. The man outside, a world apart, he's still a boy. Trying to save me while attempting to convey some semblance of my continued worth and capability to the rest of our world.
He's probably panicking now. I've locked the door from the inside, shutting him out, shutting me away. Where I am now is no prison, but it is my self-imposed cage, my exile. Responding to my continued silence, he dreads the horrific sights he thinks may lurk behind the door: my swinging corpse, my serrated veins, or perhaps my spilling organs upon this cold, deserted floor. But my perseverance lingers on. In this fleeting moment of lucidity, I assure myself of my final mission- to await the dawn of yesterdays.
In this desolate sea that fades and corrodes, there exists a lone oasis for my persistent existence. It is a beloved artefact, flowing gently over my degenerating form. Once it was worn by a regal maiden, unparal