Friend of Woe

***

Stay true, friend.
This compass points ever North.
Gentle paths rarely last.
Our seeking eyes never were
Fated to find false-promised gold.
“If my wandering feet
Don’t take me on dangerous ways,
Then, these days were wasted.”
So you said.

Mistakes were marked
With rocks and twigs,
Or scratched in trees.
We couldn’t find a bin,
So we stuck our trash in
Pockets, packs, and shoes.
Be wary.
Stray too far from this line;
Stroke curious fingers alongside
The silhouette of the forest’s edge,
And you will find your struggle.
Prudence dictates we warm cold hearts
Against the cooked iron-rail,
Free twisted souls
Such as ours from sorrow.

Dolorous droplets drip cyclically
Like noon church bells.
How easy, you must think,
It is to withstand
Such an ill-mannered leak.
Salt-stricken water soaks the earth
Beneath your bare feet.
Dozens of twigs snap like shards of glass.
What are a few nights of blurry sleep
Compared to the strength
A struggle as this will bring?
Your thumb prunes to the bone and a voice
You once had known dries to dust.

Step away from this madness.
You see what sorrow breeds.
How small a crimson tide swirls,
Shifting and consuming all havens,
Having once thought safe.
Those drips did turn rogue.

A moment will come,
In which, your breath
Weighs itself in the abyss
Of a stranger’s throat.
As memories repressed return
With a sinister conclusion.

A cool breeze of an Autumn night’s air
Will snap you back to the world.
You will ask yourself then,
As life’s noose tightens,
If your mind was ever truly sound—
No answer will come to your lips.

Friend of woe, explain nothing.
Silence speaks loud enough.
There is nothing you owe to those
Untested by uncharted courses.

Take my hand.
You merely must ask.
I think this struggle
Has gotten
Too real.
I can’t do much.
But, sit here
With you—
If only for
A little while.

Referenced In~

• Dear Anima
• Sylvie’s Poetry Portfolio