An Etched Memory

Sorrows of tomorrow are surely promised

The palpitating slashes in my head are the rawest

Trail to the open door, I see blood droplets

Walking through to the other side of my own darkness.

Almost missed my opportunity for balance and solace

Hiking a trail to the under side of the surface

When will I be able to silence this system of resurgence?

Walking through the sticks and spikes of the past

Learning to dodge the missiles or clash

Performance applauded to the personal hourglass

An unstable detonator, repetition of attacks

Surreal nightmares are glances of an everlasting impact.

Instilled in me fight after fight,

There is no more mask, only a brutal react by the voices trapped.

—h.b. Woods