Limbo

Black, I’ve seen a dark so black, an unhaving void, a limp-pedal-powered television so empty, this mine’s corner collapse of dirty coal so liquid thick; it’s almost liquorice; it traps and overcasts. A burned-out and brunet, when you’ve forgotten to pay on time at the end of the month, switched down, way before the Big Bang, shining the black backward in your eyes, its neon never-light, never switched on from an unsung Sun, an unlived devilun, a sky nightlight full of paranoias of tomorrow. This is the lonely world we all live in, you never know how small you have to make yourself, into tiny pieces, until you become a good son to a loving father, we still wait for our small beginnings. Different dark symphonies of brickish, spindled, and squeezed; run for cover under my soul. It’s fine; I am still in here, somewhere. Where have I gone? Trust me; it’s in here. Look, there I am, in-between the bewetted drizzled trees, is that me swinging on a swing chair? I wonder what’s wrong with me; it’s where my heart used to swing, it once was there. With my illusions shooting free. Should never have been freed, but neither should have we. ‘Between these late nights and unpunched pillow dreams, behind the terracotta, terror from the cot birth; these stones stick into me, skin-deep, chipping deep, and sometimes lives as my Hell, a little less holier than my melancholia, a wayward warrior washed ashore of a once-lived but now a more forgetful familiar murky, maleficent land, once my own honourable but deathly, horror of my inside-meandering moors.

Holding on to trauma? It’s my comfort blanket, unfun, undone, and I am back at the canvas, my mind goes the blankest, it’s my frost harness through foreign harshness, thorned cactus attacking us, are my hands cutting this? What’s happened? A lot of trauma, a pill bottle or a bottle of vodka? Fuck it, I’ll be a writer and let loose this lesser human loser in a bath of acid anger, leave him in longer, he never belonged here, he won’t be long in here, he’s not from here, but watch me drop a bomb here…  I don’t care, I kind of like it. Watch me dance, step, step, strand aside from a stand, I am the keyboard, Piano Man. 

Crying, tears in palms, collecting these riddles in puddles upon these tough taut, is it nature or taught? Rocked thoughts, pebbles can’t go with the flow, a blood clot since the wood cot. An army of words to arm me, purge, missing in the action, my brother, killing in his absence, my observed absurd P.T.S.D. has me attacking each of you, first chapter. I’ll be scrapping on this page, a wasted space, written by a waste of space in his wasted state, just look at his face, he red laughing, waist deep in drugs, with blood on his sleeve; forget the jury, fingers chopped and tongue should be cleaved.

In the depths of a black Limbo so profound, it swallows all light, an abyss without end. A television flickers with static, its screen a void, echoing the emptiness within. The coal miner’s collapse is not just a disaster but a descent into a viscous, tar-like darkness, suffocating and inescapable, like being trapped in a never-ending nightmare.

It’s a place where time itself seems to unravel, where even before the universe began its grand explosion, there was only this consuming darkness. Neon lights flicker, casting a sickly glow, but they never truly illuminate the desolate landscape.

In this lonely world, one shrinks into oneself, fractured into fragments just to survive. Yet even amidst the desolation, traces of humanity linger, ghostly echoes of who we once were. Is that a figure swinging on a decrepit swing, the sound of laughter twisted into a mournful wail?

Trauma becomes a twisted comfort, a security blanket woven from nightmares. The mind, once a canvas for dreams, now lies barren, frostbitten by the harshness of reality. Anger simmers beneath the surface, bubbling like acid, consuming everything in its path.

In this infernal limbo, there’s no escape from the torment of the past. Memories morph into monsters, haunting every corner of the mind. Each word becomes a weapon, each sentence a battleground where the self fights against its own demons.

The protagonist, a lost soul in this malevolent land, dances on the edge of madness. Tears mingle with blood, pooling in the palms like offerings to unseen gods. Is it nature or nurture that has brought them to this point? A question is unanswerable as the riddles that echo through the void.

Amidst the chaos, there’s a sense of resignation, a grim acceptance of their fate. They may be a writer, but in this place, even words fail to capture the true horror of their existence. They are but a wasted space, a forgotten soul in the wasteland of their own creation.