Walking pathways of death as respectful as one is able,
You find an occasional numb in the midst of being overwhelmed or unknowing of what to do and how to feel.
Faces of those who might know the area as home are illumined and regarded,
Faces of those visiting are studied as well out of curiosity,
And then those who are seeking a new home in this unfamiliar land;
They are the ones who you do your best to assure they have been seen,
While the world may seemingly pass them by.
In a world on edge,
Below ground can be a place to find peace.
When walking caverns that have become hallowed halls of history,
A certain stillness is found even when actively observing your surroundings;
knowing you’ve temporarily escaped the chaos and noise of society above.
In refining one’s self, you find that you also lose pieces of your “self”;
It makes you wonder if it’ll all be worthwhile,
or if it will be just another phase or season.
Something meant for a scrapbook rather than a defining step forward as a human,
Compulsion rather than immersion.
My critical eyes have been poked many times over,
But I believe the time has come to gouge them out.
For I’d rather gain knowledge blindly and objectively,
then have the privilege of sight but also the handicap of unneeded critique.
With bones dislocated, emotions suppressed or dead, and a mind rather empty;
What good would I pose as just another spoon fed oaf?
As I prepare to leave,
I don’t have a final destination.
As the mirror reflects a face that is familiar,
I don’t immediately acknowledge it as my own.
Maybe a shadow of someone I knew,
Or someone I’d rather forget I met.
Just a sketch of someone or something,
From a place no longer existent.