Author S. K. Nicholas

Melancholia. Cities of dust. States of mind, flowing like endless rivers. People dance, others collapse. My mouth takes a drag on a cigarette. It blows out smoke to the blackened sky above. Beer and whiskey, churning in a greedy belly. Sleep stirs in the future. Unconscious desires, creeping in the shadows and at the nape of your neck. Childlike laughter. Innocence betrayed. Veins beneath milk-white skin. Teeth beneath lips red with lust. In the silence, you can lose yourself so easily. Making love to ghosts, far away from harm. Dizzy from the truth, and drunk on freedom. Flames on a roasting fire. Snow on a floral dress crumpled like a photograph on the floor. Images resound. They confuse and penetrate like arrows. Depression. Under the waves, and struggling to make sense when everything is senseless. Frightened by atoms. Perturbed by language. Burning lanterns of hopes and dreams. Stars that collide, forever reaching out. To be saved, and to be guided back home. In paintings and books. In music and song. We all call out, for a chance of redemption. We all want so desperately, to be pulled from the stormy seas. To honour those we want never to let go. It’s in our chemistry, and it’s in our hearts. It’s just too bad that some never realise until it’s too late. Ain’t it such a shame, when you give up on something without hesitation. When you never look back, without so much as a second glance. Riderless horses, through the forest and down empty lanes. Cold October mornings, always and never the same. Do you know what it feels like, to be so utterly alone? When there’s no one to talk to, and no one to call your own? Too tired. Not hungry. No meaning. Sick with nerves. Sick with being sick. Through the eye of the needle, we pass like speeding bullets. Rings under our eyes, and the darkness of haunted minds. Take a bath. Wash away sin. Dirt under fingernails. Clipped wings and the torn pages of a book not yet written. Crying for no reason. Dazzled by flowers, and the beauty of butterflies. Grapes in baby hands, singing for reasons unknown. Despair and grief. Demons and Tigers, ready and willing to pounce without warning. We catch glimpses of faith, yet we never understand. We come close to discovery, yet we retreat on the brink. Shapeless like a thought. Fluid like a feeling. Changing like a werewolf, and howling to the moon. These days, they stand as markers. As pillars of faith. Seduced by life, and entranced by death.