I am consumed
And when they take me to be exhumed
They will find an empty room
And when they open that room
They will find an empty cavern
A shallow urn
Devoid of the remains
Inside my brain
I am consumed
And when they take me to be exhumed
They will find a mess of rooms
Each will be filled with a jumble of looms
And each will be rigorously in motion
Each will be spinning tales different from the truth
Different from what you've made me into
The depression my body makes on my carpet
Won't take me that far yet
But in this room I lay
Trying to forget the worst day
Trying to forget the worst way
Trying to forget how things could've been
And all I can see
Is that you're not here next to me
About the Creator
Melynda Kloc
Creating one-of-a-kind moments through immersive art and writing.
Keep reading
More stories from Melynda Kloc and writers in Poets and other communities.
Is Hope?
I see fog on the horizon. The sun's rays have yet to break across the curve of the earth and scatter the low-lying clouds. A misty vapor shrouds any passers by; the field has yet to be crossed. A fog so thick, one would be soon lost. The haze beckons to the few who seek peace from the swirling clouds of their minds. The air is so thick here, you can taste the bitter, acrid burn. Soft gray wisps draw me in, dark, deep hues call me out - as if a moth to the flame. Mesmerized, I shuffle forward; my eyes locked on something... My feet reach the edge of the pavement, the mist begins to kiss and lap at my sneakers, asking to see my feet. I swiftly kick them to the side, and my toes welcome the soft, wet lips, the stark, cold dew. This thing, this soft beast, this silky, shaky, shifting smog eats away at my soles. The balls of my feet long for the grey in front of me as I step gingerly into the waves. They sigh softly against my shins and pull me in. I wade to my waist and wait. I watch and listen but the sun has long left this steadfast grey gleam. The silvery slivers of moonlight sparkle and beg me to come closer; lean in further, breathe in deeper. I push slowly forward, my toes squidging into soft, mucky, murk. I blink and see grey, I turn to look behind, and I realize I can't see the pavement. I can't see the shore. A soft, small whisper shifts and floats across the expanse and fills my ears like a trumpet forcing practice notes through the too-thin ceiling above me. I collapse and cover my ears, shrinking back, stepping, falling, into a deep, dark emptiness. My body falls down, down, down. My hands search for roots, branches, vines, dirt, anything, anything I might snatch to catch myself. My nails dig into the cold, hard walls, my fingertips begin to bleed into the stones. Dirt jams into my cuticles, my fingertips, my veins, and I land on my shins. The ground is soft and wet. Something dark and dank fills my nostrils. Oh, how I long for the sun! I curl my body into a ball and sit, my back asking for space, a rounded wall obliges, and I wait. I hope and pray the sun's rays will be great enough to find me. I notice a lightening in the everlasting darkness and reach out. The cold seeps into my bones, stiffening my sore muscles. I stretch forward still, pushing myself along, right hand, right knee, left hand, left knee, right hand... until I reach the ever-waning light. My knee scrapes something hard, protruding from the soft, wet earth. A handle, a handle that won't budge. So I dig, sinking my nails further and further until the handle moves in my palms. Some cold, crisp thing appears in my hands, the dirt falling to the side. A half-circle, attached to a hollow metal bowl. A pail! I pull harder still, falling back onto my haunches, my fingers pulling the bucket along with me. Something firm and scratchy drags along the skin of my toes. I work my fingers around this cylinder-like thing, and I feel the braids forming beneath my palms: a rope.
By Melynda Kloc7 months ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.