As the Accursed, I do Accuse:
I am wounded, empty-leaden,
And you are the cause.
What have you done to me?
To my very being,
That each breath I take must make way for pause…
That my mind and heart and soul are in turmoil,
As I steel them all to face you.
You, who have seen me at my worst,
I, filled with the unspoken and unspent, unvented quite demented,
Lamenting that what once was and would have,
Had it not been for me.
What am I experiencing, right now?
Is it fear?
Yes, but not exactly.
Is it trepidation?
Yes, but no, not quite.
There is some guilt,
As a matter of factly,
Perhaps, mayhaps, a hope?
A chance for some respite…
Strangely, I am elated, too,
At Fate(?), now steers me back to you.
This is not a feeling, that leaves me feeling torn,
‘Tis emotional maelstrom, a dark and heavy storm.
Though as I grapple with parts of Self denied,
Then passes, this turbulence, and from torment there is nothing left,
Except Gratitude.
In dreams, in thoughts, in my subconscious actions that have shaped me thus far,
To encounter you again is my blessing, undeserved as I was since we parted.
What is dead does not easily spring to life,
Yet though untended, those affections held I did not let die.
So haunt me, please- not as spirit, apparition,
Mere Figment of Imagination,
But as Flesh and Blood and Zest and Zeal:
It’s worth all suffering, to know you’re Real.
And all this while, it was _I_ who has lingered, ghostly, by this lonesome grave…
Solosopher & Solosophy 