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Another of my "poésie noire" works here. Being in the tunnel is a very dark place to be that robs of humanity. You end up substituting with something that never satisfies.

The Tunnel

Fdf5205c-8b5b-4da8-a6dc-63fe28d680a9by Billy J. Stewart22 Mar 2014

I can barely remember how it was back then.
Even the sound of noise seems such a distant memory.
I close my eyes; I open my eyes, always the same.
Blur of black, black of blur.
Hum of drum.
Voices from then, now just a fading memory, cracked and scratched,
A cacophony of confusion, at least they are to me,
And there am I, stooped.
Foetal.
Shooting up sorrow’s arrow,
Drawing an infusion of liquid pain through my veins,
Deep into my soul.
I can’t make it stop, or go away.
I can’t undo what has been done, I can’t unsay the past, unlive the lived, or tear back the gift I gave you then.
And you’re not here.
And I can’t bear the loss any more, staring at walls.
So here I remain,
Veering forward where I don’t want to go.
Stuck on the moving track, counting out a million steps to nowhere.
Joining without connecting.
All the lines of darkness recede to the same end-point,
Calling to me in silent whisper.
In the tunnel.