Member-only story
In the Depths of Feeling
Prose Poetry
The songs bleed, bleed, bleed from a vein — and I cannot staunch the wound.
Help, help, help.
But it’s no matter, it’s no matter, it’s no matter. All at once, I am undone in my own careful words. The lyrics fade — noise to the ether — and I pant out a soft refrain of a sigh as if that one utterance will save my soul.
Ask. Ask. Ask.
Oh, I’ve tried to pray. But prayers fall on deaf ears, don’t they? Again and again and again I’ve told myself that my words will never be heard — be known — by anyone who matters. But still I persist like a mermaid who has no choice but to share her sad siren song to the masses.
Maybe I am looking for sailors to drown in the depths of my sorrow. That would make a queer kind of sense, wouldn’t it?
Oh, I ask of you — why is it that we’re here?
Go away, go away, go away.
It’s a pointless plea.
I can try and try and try — but the riddles never end.
I wonder why the songs speak to me when nothing else does. Why my heart beats in staccato as if it is talking a language in response, as if it is trying to raise its own melody in opposition — or in communication. Like a dance of the senses.
