The Warming

I am cold. Empty, and lost. Victim of the rules of this society. As my soul starts to defrost, i realize I am so much more than another victim of this world.

The ice inside my veins,

Will never cool my frigid heart.

The fire in my soul,

Will never burn out my deepest desires.

The wind beneath my knees,

Will never hush the lingering candle,

Lit up somewhere in cages of faith and despair

That try to keep me alive.

The eyes,

One and two,

Set between the smooth bridge of my nose,

Will never see the truth 

Of this world.

Lies,

Covered up with endless sheets,

To soak up the emptiness of the bedwetter's dream.

The round circles that selfishly exchange breath with the air,

Inhaling in intoxicated impurities.

Toxins with toxins,

Poison with poison.

Convinced of breathing the truth,

The pure and undeniable heavens.

Only to find killer, yet mortally harmless clouds of lost trust

Gaging out of its selfish dark caves.

The secrets that dare pass my unsurpassed lips,

Never forgotten.

Locked in position between the compartments of lies, secrets, and hidden jewels arranged upon my forgiven tongue.

The whispers of the unthinkable sliding across my cupid's bow,

Leading up to the tipped ridge at the top of my lips,

Swallowed by shock and utter disgust. 

Trespassing into my lips,

Locked and sealed.

The bumps on my skin,

Pricking out like the skin of dead poultry,

Cold and lifeless.

Left on the countertop to warm up.

Nothing can warm a victim of society.

The feathers plucked out our skin long before our senses catch them.

The daggers left in our backs long after our death.

The lies, the truths, the secrets, the despair, the crashing of forgotten of hopes and dreams, 

Aren't we all a part of it?

My heart starts to cool,

Melting its frosty locked veins.

Pumping, alive,

Again.

My soul, burnt.

Overrun by the desires I deepest admire.

The lingering candle, hushed to darkness.

Turning all forms of faith and humanity into utter nonsense.

Like the dark, it cannot be seen.

Like the dark, it is not there.

Like the dark, nothing.

There is no such thing as faith,

But despair.

The eyes,

Windows to the soul.

The tragedies it has seen.

The truth,

Never revealed.

Soon after the mattress is cleaned

From the bedwetter's dream.

The air,

Even more toxic than before, 

My mutated lungs begins to defy its shrivel.

 

Secrets,

To and fro.

Defined as lightweight teleporting whispers. 

Tongue to Tongue,

Lip to Lip,

Motioning sound waves into ear.

Passed along without the absence of austere.

The bumps on my skin, 

Shy back inwards.

Signaling my warming.

Defrosting all there is of my soul.

No longer cold.

No longer a victim of the emptiness.

No longer controlled.

No longer annulled.