Vagabond Soul

Everyone’s got to belong somewhere, don’t they? Or at least, I thought they did, until I met you.

There cannot possibly be an acceptable place in this wondrous world for something as feral and untamed as the inside of your being; those sinister tides and black hearts need a dark place to gather and I think they found it right there with you; at the centre of your dirty, rotten core. After all, there’s no place like home.

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You’re the festering wound that leaks its stinking gore onto the clean, white gauze – staining and tainting everything it touches, infecting all that is innocent and pure until you finally have your way and begin your erosion from the inside out. A rabid maggot wending through the wormholes of time with razor-sharp, blackened teeth and breath that could render you motionless with one faint hiss – you stink of all that is wrong with this God-Forsaken Helter Skelter Hell.

Why?

Why spray your stenching venom over everything that was once good and sweet? What could you possibly gain and why does this crimson tide ebb and flow with purgatoric satisfaction as it washes away the footprints in the sand, leaving inky devastation in its wake? I can’t even claw my way up this slimy slope to save myself from you; you’ve taken that much from me that my splintered nails can’t get a hold on the greasy, green tendrils of weed that might allow me to pull myself to salty salvation – you tore the strength right from my heart – just because you could.

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You relentless whore.

People are waiting for you to change: wishing it, praying for it. They beg for your icicle talons to lose their grip and your frozen soul to melt. It’s time for a new dawn.

I had a little maniacal Clown’s chuckle at their stupidity – you’ll never be open for business again. The season’s over.

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Closed until further notice – just like your wizened, charcoal, motionless heart.

SJ.

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