A slow percussion that never builds. The steady, disciplined cadence waiting for the words of an experienced shaman. Instead, there are the ramblings of a fool. The broken guitar strings of a child, that refused to lean how to play music. I am all those things, because we are all those things. A pile of useless flesh and bones. Partial prisoners of genetics, the rest being held captive by experiences lacked, nurturing deprived. The moon is hidden by the eclipse, the sun suffers the same fate.
I am scared of the physical pain. It is enough. There is no dignity to a life of chronic agony. No matter where it attacks, the rest of the body will bend and curve, before its time. Youth will fade with each passing nanosecond. Stolen, like Persephone by Hades.
Not long ago, I was hidden by the weight of a lover undeserving. Under thick blankets, we whispered words, fueled by lust and corrupted love. Oh, that I could mean those uttered phrases forever, each time repeated, increased in value. That some things, when delivered honestly, would become guarantees. That what defined me was absolute, unchanging, and held up by integrity.
I point a finger at a villain that does not exist, or it solely exists within me. Now, I am hidden again. It is the pain that covers me whole, so that the world does not see me. I say, I should have conquered the world, while I had the opportunity. When one is on their knees, defeated and humiliated, one thinks of all that should-have-beens. But, the truth is that the exact combination leading to victory is difficult to hit upon, even with skill.