Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Cleaning House

How do I begin when I am caught in the middle? To where can I run whilst my feet tread on air? A torrent rushes through my temples; mind I dare not say, for I have gone too mad. There is a drum, but of its drummer I must make complaint for it cannot make decision between head and heart whereon it will beat. But I have entered the lair of dragons of my own accord and have no right to an unscathed passage. Such is the fate of those who are thrust to life, urged without escape to carry a burden not of their own making. Who knew the closeness betwixt water and fire? How a single tear can burn flesh and bone on its sad descent; a continent in flames would have less heat. There is none who can help me. I will tread these coals in my bare feet, though a thousand shoes be thrust my way.