That aching feeling that your time is near, but that there's not near enough time to relish all that is dear. Each step forward is a battering ram sending you back, and you can't help but wonder if this is punishment for all they say that you lack. “I'll be a better person, I swear!” You lie through clenching teeth out of fear.
How many times?
How many times can you be pushed from a cliff and live?
There's got to be a final tier in the fate at hand, a band of late music announcing the cure of your agony.
And her voice rings each night, before you sleep, cast in darkness that will never end when you try to wake.
Your time is near, Mayflower.
Why did I let you fall this far?
You didn't die that night, rather finding the arms of alleviating pain, an anchoring voice and condemning tone. By your side kept your shadow, the blind leading the blind, the watching eyes averting as they each tripped in turn.
Voices are now voices, not held to a voice, a tripping lie that stirs anxiety bright. Two things remain, more important than the memory of color, more urgent than the face of any love: his cruel grin, twisting into the maw of a wolf, fangs ready to tear; wisps of blonde hair that turn into the gusts of wind, pinning you to the ground, gravity heavier than rock.
Her voice rarely held a face to begin with. It was always her haunting tone that came from shadowed corners that scared you the most. Being unable to see her felt as if it were more right than ever before.
It was the wake of death that kept her drifting, the impending feeling that her fate had been mapped out. She'd never admit it, but each night she'd pray to not be sent to the void, that she'd grace eternity with a change of pace.
“I'll be a better person, I swear!” You lie through clenching teeth out of fear.
Perhaps the only thing that could have saved you was the sobering sight of yourself now, when your antics were just a night's annoyance and nothing more.
