It’s all surface…his life.
There is no depth.
It’s shallow, perfumed with artifice.
The loneliness is real.
The solitude his choosing.
His anger is rife,
And exhausting.
He places blame, lives in fear.
The walls are high.
The asylum soothing.
He exists in strife;
Breathless, fading.
He sleeps, avoids by dreaming.
The nakedness quelled.
The exposure looming.
It’s all surface…his life;
A creation.
He yearns to change, but is tired.
The disquiet is heavy.
The darkness seducing.
He does not long for death;
To leave anyone behind, mourning.
He longs for non-existence,
Which leaves no one broken-hearted from knowing.
The road is twisted, curved.
The hills go up then down.
There has to be a fork.
There has to be a sign.
He has to make a choice.
Life…
His.
©️MichaelRohrer
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