The wailing tomb

 

Here I sit

alone in this waiting room,

tomb. The clock ticks doom.

I hear the agonised screams

of another that has stared

into the void.

Madness creeps

on the edges of their cries,

for those that look deeply

into the deadlights

only see the ends of everything untie,

and the great unravelling begin.

 

I sit,

fingers drumming,

running, pounding.

 

Thudding.

 

Like the empty hole in my chest.

 

I close my eyes

and I see the emptiness

so vast

and I try to grasp

my place in it.

 

The scream pierces the air 

like nails in a coffin scraping

the lid until fingers are torn.

Chalkboard memories scraped

all around. The sound. Hurts.

 

The man that stared

into the void,

must now be clawing at his eyes,

for the things seen

in the dark night

of eternal pain

are not to be seen

by the feeble human brain.

 

I sit.

 

Feet shaking.

Knuckles white, gripping tight

to a last stand of sanity

and I realise I’m screaming.

The voice I heard

all along was my own,

and those things I was shown

were so very true.