The Convict

Once again guilt smote him; he staggered beneath

All of its intangible weight.

When he shuddered his breath came out like smoke.

But there were no ghosts, no forces greater to him

Than the glint in his victim’s eyes

That shone while he slept and kept him from dreaming.

Nightmares visited; succubi peeled back layers of his skull

And played with his brain. Even while his eyes

Were still open. He

Prayed for hell.

Its hot pain that tore screams from his lips

Might just be enough to distract him.

Then again, it might not.

The sentence had already been passed

But hours in his cell stepped forward and back,

Circling in a mad, unending waltz.

Sweat stood out on his brow like beads of poison.

There was no progression.  

Reviews

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:: i cannot imagine what it must be like to live in this head-space... although i remember stagnating for a little over a year... and wishing during that time... that death would bless me in my sleep and take me away... it was an oddly desolate head-space to live in... and untrue... because i can see now... that salvation is possible... or so i think...