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Imagination
by Stymie
Locked in my cage, I stare at the emptiness;
this very emptiness possesses my soul -
we are one.
The months pass, as do the years,
yet as time progresses, it loses all relevance.
I sit here trapped in a recurring nightmare, never to awaken.
I feed on my own self-pity -
I never hunger. I merely exist,
captive in this asylum, biding my time;
my sole gratification, inebriated isolation.
The door to my cage is ajar, as is often the case,
yet it's pointless to leave;
each journey leads me back
to this God-forsaken realm of suffering and despair.
Long ago, I was free;
I remember faces, smiling faces.
A different me, in a different time -
it was a time of fulfillment, of togetherness, of love.
Then one day the fantasy ended, and I was here . . .
but enough about the past; I must face my reality.
Distant voices race through my head,
as I stave off insanity.
But this time, the voice is real.
Unsure of its origin, I feel my soul is not as cold; my burden lighter.
Though I smile, I soon shiver in frustration.
Tears stream down my cheeks,
as I cannot deny that the other voice is my own,
as my rationality succumbs to my imagination.
by Stymie
Locked in my cage, I stare at the emptiness;
this very emptiness possesses my soul -
we are one.
The months pass, as do the years,
yet as time progresses, it loses all relevance.
I sit here trapped in a recurring nightmare, never to awaken.
I feed on my own self-pity -
I never hunger. I merely exist,
captive in this asylum, biding my time;
my sole gratification, inebriated isolation.
The door to my cage is ajar, as is often the case,
yet it's pointless to leave;
each journey leads me back
to this God-forsaken realm of suffering and despair.
Long ago, I was free;
I remember faces, smiling faces.
A different me, in a different time -
it was a time of fulfillment, of togetherness, of love.
Then one day the fantasy ended, and I was here . . .
but enough about the past; I must face my reality.
Distant voices race through my head,
as I stave off insanity.
But this time, the voice is real.
Unsure of its origin, I feel my soul is not as cold; my burden lighter.
Though I smile, I soon shiver in frustration.
Tears stream down my cheeks,
as I cannot deny that the other voice is my own,
as my rationality succumbs to my imagination.