The Elixer of Comfort

My mind does not find comfort in stillness.

There is no moment of quiet peace to be found in another's arms

no matter how beloved,

no cozy softness to be wrapped around my soul

by star-filled darkness or rainy afternoon relaxation.

Rest is but a double-edged sword sharpened with anxiety

and dripping with the bleeding of time.

Death's eyes are inky pools full of all my untold stories

that hold me hypnotized

as the hourglass sands run through my clenched fists.

Comfort is instead the heavy tactile clacking of the keys,

the destroyed purity of the empty page

permanently scarred with thoughts and pieces of myself,

and the passion-filled words that flow from my fingertips

into the fabric of the universe.

Comfort is feeling wrecked, bloody, and broken

because imagination and reality,

for a singular moment,

blurred into a single battle.

Comfort is what comes after the storm of creation

settles onto the bookshelf wrapped in glossy colors

that mask my self-doubts and hold my decaying bones in eternal stasis.

Comfort is being able to embrace the Reaper

with a secret smile on your lips.

Comfort is knowing that you're immortal.