the weak and the wounded
i just stood there. the cool breeze was blowing back my hair while the radiant sun glanced off her. then she turned her eyes shone like midnight. i couldnt see into her it was pitch black. then a far off drip like throwing a dime down a dreary wishing well. but there isnt any room for wishes when there isnt even room for a bottom. she echoed from the inside then there was a release like a supernova it was an implosion. the hole only grew and she sucked in all the air. and with a solemn whimper it fleeted. she was turned into a stone rag doll. a sense of ennui and apathy was followed by unsettling sentiments. i felt numb. why didnt i reach out to stop you from falling. my cynicism took over. and then i remember that yellow sheet the one that you soared above and the orange purple and pink backdrops which always brought tears to my eyes. the contrast between it and the metal seemed so beautiful but on a day like this all that i sense is disgust. you could have prolonged had i not existed had no one existed. ive felt this way before it is not uncommon. existentialism is not a game for the weak. but the wounded almost stumble into it. then 'theres this switch that gets hit and it all stops making sense im all alone at a table of friends and i feel nothing for them. nothing...'