By Christiaan A. Pasquale

By Christiaan Pasquale

The ones lost in their own heads, who look at the world now through dark hollow eyes. Eyes that once danced with light and wit. The ones lost on the end of a rope, neck broken, throats crushed, temples pulsed.

The ones robbed at gun point, of their wallets or their balls or their souls. Shot in the leg or run through with dirty blades in front of taco stands in the misty lamplight evening.

The ones lost on the end of a needle, with bellies full of pills. Prescribed by villains in white coats, pickled with booze and morphine patches under their collars. Myopic and near sighted, secretly plotting your demise.

The ones lost to heartache that burns like a branding, like a box car rolling over your fingers. That tilts the bottle up and empty into your gullet and sends your starward....hopefully.

Because it's not to question what is unanswerable maybe. Lost to the utter bewilderment of the thin, pale blue line that is our existence. To the crushing confusion of confounded pain that lays us open to it's unrelenting will.....our will broken, in turn.

To all that is left behind by it all. To all that was once light. To all that has found us here. Frail, destitute, baffled.....lost. We, who sought and found nothing to cling to.

~C. Pasquale

Global Scriggler.DomainModel.Publication.Visibility
There's more where that came from!