Black Mud Gully

Fingerless gloves allow me
to scratch at my beard,
pick the last bean off my fork.

It wasn't always like this,
this void of nothing.

I kept it healthy, vibrant,
but now cobweb's appear
on the empty shelves of my mind.

Madness lurks, waiting to pounce
full bodied onto a fragile ribcage
and I can't fend it off.

I hear drilling trucks
rumble up, boring a new hole
in what's left of sanity
and I scream out "enough"
but diesel engines block out my plea.

There's no coal in here, it's me,
it's me, I scream

It stops, rests for the night
but it's incomplete,
there's more to be dug
more fuel to drain from lucidity.

I scratch the bean,
pick the last of my beard,
off the fork.

I'm four.

I'm three.

I’m hollow.

Edward Rochester Esq.

On Wednesday, May 31, 2023 at 7:37:48 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> Black Mud Gully
>
> Fingerless gloves allow me
> to scratch at my beard,
> pick the last bean off my fork.
>
> It wasn't always like this,
> this void of nothing.
>
> I kept it healthy, vibrant,
> but now cobweb's appear
> on the empty shelves of my mind.
>
> Madness lurks, waiting to pounce
> full bodied onto a fragile ribcage
> and I can't fend it off.
>
> I hear drilling trucks
> rumble up, boring a new hole
> in what's left of sanity
> and I scream out "enough"
> but diesel engines block out my plea.
>
> There's no coal in here, it's me,
> it's me, I scream
>
> It stops, rests for the night
> but it's incomplete,
> there's more to be dug
> more fuel to drain from lucidity.
>
> I scratch the bean,
> pick the last of my beard,
> off the fork.
>
> I'm four.
>
> I'm three.
>
> I’m hollow.
>
> Edward Rochester Esq.

Here they come relentless, those mired in the mud senseless. Existing in the dimness of ignorance, those that clamor to drag others down to where they dwell in belligerence so only to elevate their own renown.

Humans and all of these troubles they call "Life" and it's struggle and strife of fools coddled by their self absorbed egos-- in shared ignorance they huddle. Their sight is muddled and their understanding befuddled-- they wonder why when their intentions they fumble, their dignity they scuttle and their grand sandcastles crumble.

Their bleeding hearts do nothing but muddy the well's waters, making it a kiddies' wading pool, not of wisdom but just of foolish wishes. Their intentions just become dead weight dragging me down, drowning me with cloying sympathies. It's it just their pulled heart strings they feel or true empathy?

And this turmoil reminds me of the time that we lost our way, lost our minds and sold our souls for bloody revenge-
all for an eye for an eye to be avenged. In blind retribution we were mired, in the very mud that our foes had expired, It was obvious that something had been stolen despite how many names taken or conventions broken- it didn't even the score, just the losses. it wasn't hatred we were lacking, us corpses...
(~AshWurthing Sinners' Epitaphs:203 Esprit De Corps Deplored)

--Will any be able to stay the hangman's hand?