Wasted Space

I am a crinkled letter, yellowing not with age, but weariness that has befallen far too quickly; carrying naught but the gravest news, heavy with greying betrayal; splotched, illegible from tears pouring out of the melancholic sky; sealed rather clumsily by a shaking wand.

I am a forgotten locket, tarnished from decades of grief that chip away at what was never gold; empty, devoid of any memories; leadened down by aching sorrows.

I am a wasted space, a barren desert, sand dunes as far as one could care to see; filled with unbearable coldness, unbearable heat; bland and raw whipping wind; a silent, deadly quicksand.

I am a haunted face, lank thin ropes of twisted black hair, blank stone eyes that inhabit the darkest abyss; barely an echo in an ivory mirror; a jagged soulless shell, known forever as gaunt.

I am the miles dragging by on bare, taxing feet, stumbling over the cobblestone, over dry prickly grass; trudging through the thick vast swamps that threaten to pull the weary traveler under.

I am ash that fills the mouth, drink that will not satisfy; a dry crust of bread abandoned in a dirty alley under the crushing weight of acid rain; a love potion quickly depleted and gone awry.

See the dying pollen, fluttering through the open skies, forever lost, to never find its destiny, only to succumb to the sharp and frozen winter? That... That is I.