It is six in the morning and there is frost on the heart’s surface.
A cancerous bug is eating away what has been left, abandoned in what once burned as a fiery desert.
The mirror on the wall is cracked in misery from disclosing the reality, exposing the vanity behind one’s eyes.
It is easy to see an image that will please but it is hard to understand the truth that hides, masked with pride, remaining distorted in our minds.
Love is the betrayal of all that we do not wish to divulge.
In its reflection is the condemnation of chosen conviction, in light of a view to which the actuality is never thought or told.
Bold words, soft spoken on mouldy lips can set this honesty free but it requires perception that is murderous to the farce.
The charade, a disgrace but its reality is dreaded for it comes with great wrath.
The attributes of man are not what he wishes them to be but a sham.
He is unkind, selfish and his spirit is damned.
It takes waging a war on one’s self, one’s inner captivity to ever become free.
The road is cold, blanketed by snow and the trees along the way are bare but if you dare to stride and persevere against the temptations of the mind, a sandy beach awaits beneath warm sunshine.
The water of its silky turquoise shore will wash away all that is filthy and tend to the wounds that are sore.
The waves will then carry this empty vessel until it is finally once again whole.