Empty Living

We go through periods of restlessness,
where the very air around us becomes stifling,
and not breathing has become more natural
than the act of breathing itself.

We drift through, walking like zombies on imagined clouds.
The beat of dead hearts keeping pace with the rough beats
on battlements and stone walls,
the rough and stupid wall around our minds.

We filter through distractions on a daily basis,
just to pass the monotonous moments of the day.
In which we struggle for any semblance,
of sense of self or body moulded out of brittle clay.

Together we are mismatched, broken body parts fitted wrong –
– fitted onto a body that doesn’t suit and blood that flows
in the wrong direction. Our bones ride the waves of red,
our souls have flown away to a better place.

There is no somewhere for us to go,
no somehow that realises hope and raises optimism.
Nothing but the rain in the clouds
bursting over and over again to douse us with pessimism.