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Archive Warning:
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Language:
English
Series:
Part 9 of Poetry from the Heart
Collections:
Poetry
Stats:
Published:
2024-02-25
Words:
202
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
1
Kudos:
12
Hits:
46

This Afterthought

Summary:

Shackled in this hole of despair, this is the darkness of blindness.
I am this darkness. I am blind. I am nothing more.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

The darkness is all consuming,
it touches all.
I live it.
I breathe it in.
It suffocates me.
It stifles me.
I choke.
I breathe it out.
I gasp for Hope. 
Darkness ate Hope.

I listen for anything; 
Anything at all,
Yet all I hear is
the Darkness' wailing echos.
It speaks its own ways,
words that others cannot understand,
it has its own language. 
Can you hear it? Can you?
The deafening silence drowns all,
Pleas for freedom spluttered in vain. 

It is my dungeon,
I am the prisoner, 
Invisible chains forged one by one; 
one for every year I lived.
the rings are complete.
The final link sealed my fate,
No key was ever made.
Nothing will break it.
My future is set.
I have none.

No plans of escape.
No sentry stands guard.
No need. 
No entrance.
No exit.
No hope.

Shackled in this hole of despair.
This is the darkness of blindness.
I am this darkness. 
I ate the hope of my own future. 
I am the sentry. 
I hold myself prisoner.

The squalling echos scream out my memories
Yet it vanish like the dust caught up in a windstorm.
Blindness killed my being, 
I am an afterthought.

Notes:

Each day I wake up in terror. Terror of this unending darkness. A darkness that I have tried to embrace and make positive. I am blind and will continue to be so. There is no cure for congenital deformities.

The void shrouds any hope I once might have had....might have had....never had such sad words been so accurate before. A wish for the past of an event that didn't exist then and still I talk of it as if I could change a wistful past moment in time.

According to the doctor's this isn't clinical depression because I don't fit the criteria, so this is me languishing in a deep dark dank dreary dreadfully depressing blackness in a universe so far away the stars and moon have faded away, where my only companion is this unbearably overwhelming circumstances, where here is the only place I have now and it wasn't by choice.

My day is merely and endless stream of nothing, reclining in this bed of blackness. My sense of directions, spatial awareness, time and internal clock is just as reliable as my eyes. Pitiful doesn't even come close. I try to write at times or listen to books or watch films. I don’t even see the point in writing though or finding a purpose for hobbies, what good will that do for me?

I have rare days when sparkles are glimmering though this vacuum of nothingness, a real sparkle, one not fabricated by my broken brain's Charles Bonnet Syndromes' hallucinations - but most of the time I am mindlessly going through the motions, no better than a robot.

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