To Have and to Hold

Lonely I tread,
past my old haunts.
I no longer recognize them
with my
two sore,
weary eyes.
Moaning, aching, I behold the visage
of those I've chosen to abandon.
Arms like aberrations,
Eyes, as their
sincerest entrails,
They reach, and I recede.
Though, reach I do,
elsewhere, to an apex.
My hands ascend my own head, searching for something larger than,
to keep me;  
the mundane,
the mold
away.


My hands, they yearn.  
For hellfire, to have and to hold.  


This vision is old, and
I am on the verge
of that dreaded verse.


Still, my search persists.
The haunts,
all vacant;
old reveries
of memories I hold fond no more;
they persist as
nails bore through skull,
like hellfire to the soul.


Mangled, my hands, they imagine a direction. But no movement follows. I've fallen in with the sands. I am ground, I am become grain, no longer sane. So long has life been a feign, so since I wished to abstain, to make anew my own. I longed to hold it in my hands, to feel it like one would sand; to behold the intangible. I behold it now, with no control and no vision, just subtle haunting sensations. And scourge after scourge, I endure, more and more unsure of whether I've reached ashore, or still tread:


nails sinking in my head.