
Sometimes I sit in quiet darkness
And think about how many other broken hearts
Have listened to its sound
Calling with the voice of Doom
Beckoning them to cast themselves
Into the pit of despair
And leave their worries behind
Tempting them to take easy peace
Violent tranquility
Instead of sitting
Helpless
Destroyed
Wreckage incarnate
Knowing they will never heal
Never again be whole
That they will live the rest of their years
As a wounded soul
Staggering through life
Without the peace that death would bring
Without the relief from pain that quiet darkness
Whispers
In the night
Beckoning
To all broken hearts
And I wonder
How many of them
I have met
Without knowing
How many of them
Have offered me a smile
How many of them
Have known that someday
I would join them
The walking wounded
The broken-hearted souls
Who wander the Earth in pain
Trying to show others
Trying to show me
How much they love
What they remember
About being
Alive
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Mauricio Chavez on Unsplash





