Time heals all wounds

Time heals all wounds, or so they say,

so why does it feel like im wasting away

with each passing moment,

the pain gets worse,

the guilt heavier,

the lesson, perverse?

Why does regret pull at my feet,

my each cell like gravity,

the ground to meet?

What coarse chains

are shackled to my heart,

as the Daemons of grief pull me apart?

Who can save the wretched and the lost,

the torment of endless laughter's ghost?

When hysteria will not save the damned

the wicked mind harbors the unnamed man

that sit in pools of blood and refuse;

the staring eyes that to close, refuse.

I will end this verse with a sickly thud,

the body that falls first in blood.

But before the end, the beginning will mend

with lips tight and sown in the bend.

I cannot stress enough the test of time

upon a withered weary mind, though

the last lines that leave these lips

shall fall through the stitches' rips.

And as I hold the marked time ahead,

the little laugh of the understood

echoes last in the frozen wood--

the dead fall silent in their bed.

as they dream of nonsensical things

with nothingness reaching towards the seams

a still heart the lacking beat brings.

Wring the hands and hold the phone--

what more could be in time alone?

A solemn whisper of generous grief

The finality almost comes a relief

yet the tears that rolls and bring a shame

holds only in itself a name.

the light shines in and leaches me

clear of hateful intensity,

I'm filled to the brim a salty sea;

Regret is a dove only I can free.