It Consumes Itself

it consumes itself
this dark drop of thick blob
of bad memories of thoughts;
of daggers set aside in the past,
hidden in the corners and nooks,
where they grow bigger through time,
consuming itself
until it is big enough to be hidden,
to be controlled, to be denied of existence.

it consumes itself
and grows stronger each night,
each day, each moment;
it blotches free will until it completely disappears,
until it is crippled,
the defeat of its very own purpose,
the downfall of all the bridges
and towers and candles
and whatever false sense of hope ever built–
for they are all futile
against the defeated self.


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