Self Pity

His eyes are blue ice.

His soul - a dark pit.

His haunting expressionless face drives icicles into my mind.

What are those feelings?

Covered by the refuse of his soul.

Will they emerge and run screaming

Or will they lurk in the remaining muck?

It may be years...they will return.....

Deformed by rot and time,

To bring fresh torment.

I would kill them now,

But I have icicles in my mind.

 

March, 1987

Randy K Wallace.com

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