Comfort is like a lie whispered
Both my mind and body grow weary. My nights bereft of the soothing tides that sleep doth bring. Wild thoughts and feelings awake from their slumbers as the sunlight fades, their nocturnal lives devoted to keeping by bed sheets dishevelled. The tracks their dark feet leave sear and scold my flesh, leaving scars which tell the stories of their travels. As the devils scamper about the room, the night is counted, not by hours, but by the sounds that run the streets at night. my only comfort is the soft moon light, which filters through the heavy cloths of darkness, trying to drive out the night.
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impus) wrote,
drained
