🔵 By Thomas Riffenburg. Photo by lauragrafie.
Despair! Cruel despair, flee from my soul!
Let the tenderness of warm joy flood once again within me; cursed I say!
Cursed, is the sickness of despairs touch, with its clawed fingers dies it pick apart the colors of ones inner rainbow, forcing the soul into ugly blackness as one by one all that was pleasant is forgotten; leave! Be away with you! I can’t stand more of what you give, you grind upon me from within till I an see only you in the world, like sand in my eyes I am blind; where went the colors, the laughter of happy, do not the flowers bloom forth still, why this stench of ugly death? From where comes my savior, is there none for me, has peace cursed me for what I know not?
Amends! Forgiveness! Allow me to beg!
No level is low enough in which I won’t crawl, no foot dirty enough in which I won’t kiss, for I am a broken and worn man, surely the most vile to incure such an enemy as despair, surely there is a way out of misery; o woe is I! For words uttered fall upon the ground, no strength to travel from silent; lone, my torture my only comfort; my captive my only friend.