My Mind

I am marble shaped by a amateur carver, a clay sculpture cracked from the cold and willed to be shaped by the winds, my heart wrenched out and laid bare before no-one, I know its too late and yet I cry, how do you race against time ever moving and ever killing us? To turn back the clocks is to turn back me, a ship lost at sea and a bird skating on the arctic winds lost ever motioning drowning in the thoughts that pervade me, to be absent of my inner voice am I dead? I walk and see not one who matters to me. Eyes peeled to the blank sheet going over my head the post mortem begun. Life is stranger than fiction and my soul is trying to summarise it. I hear voices who once spoke to me breeze past me and I get a glimmer of when i was happy, when every second I enjoyed, the vintage drink of life I could never get enough of when I was my prime a person intrigued by life itself but I realise how little we all are, each thing we do a farcicle matter in the eyes of God, another person going above their station. Another dammed soul for St Peter to look and gaze upon. Skies ascending eternally, souls yearning to rise with them. Enjoying their company all lost with their own minds, to break free is to die. Better to live in what life has blinded you to see than to move the protective hands and stare at what you have. The head controls the body, a mass of pink commanding the bone and flesh to its whim, a parasite of muscle trying to justify itself to the higher beings. A parasite trying to break free of its pestilence upon the land.