Willow

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Staring out the window of my mind’s backseat,
I search for forever through these tragedies.
Am I to become what I fear most?
A breathing imitation of a ghost.
Forced to be seen but never felt.
This is the hand we’ve all been dealt.
Haunted by illusions, feeding my delusions.
Will my story ever reach its conclusion?
Such a sick game we play.
Trading life for death in hopes of decay.
My fingertips brush the tempered glass.
And in that moment I feel something vast.
Transported from the shades behind my eyes.
To reality, I’m watching time pass by and die.
I used to feel so godly, now all I am is a copy.
Calculated misery sends tremors through my body.
This vessel I’ve called home but treat like hell.
Where anything of value I’ve tried to expel.
If only my heart was made of stone.
I’d fear not the absence of a peace to call my own.
All the hell in my head can’t concentrate its pace.
Like great waves of fire I can’t anticipate.
It feels as if my life has been borrowed time.
A gift that has been wasted sitting in my mind.
I remove my hand from the mirror, it all fades to black.
Desperate despair washes over me and my light refracts.
Maybe in another life, somewhere, somehow.
I could be more than I am within, without.

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