locating a magistrate for the judgment taking place in the mirror

you see it;
my eyes tell you the story;
dry; windburn; crack pipe melted;
life has escaped through my tear ducts.

you see me;
the wrinkled skin around my eyes
is a novella of pain you created with
your antagonist and their tiny finger knives.

you hear me;
my voice tells you the story;
crackled pronunciation; audibly out of tune;
each word exists at the end of a last breath.

you hear it;
a pulse, faint and depleted,
screams at your face, whispers in your ear,
“i
am
done.”

Published by

jonathandeanrichie

Recently moved back to the States after living 16 months in Vietnam. I write to remove the thoughts trapped in the cobwebs of my psyche before the spider envelopes me whole.

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