Death sits close

Shadows climb walls,Death sits close

A smell not unpleasant fills the air

Each stranger’s look holds deaths eyes,

And she takes the form of friend and pet

Comfort comes from communication,

We sit and chat like old friends,

Weighing the past on scales,

Friendships grow like leaves,

Blighted and bright – aged and innocent,

Dreams of futures clouded by esoteric mists,

The past a crystal map

Signposted with false failures and deluded realities’

She the mother that carries us to the next,

Beholds the final mystery,

Hope and faith life’s final cocktail

Drink deep in the delusions of life and remember

And embrace ones final bed’ lie down take one final breath

And return to she the mother to be born once more


About Mr BPD

About Author. I have Borderline Personality Disorder and as a writer and poet I explore my madness through the creative arts. I have a personal belief that even in darkness light exists and it is a personal responsibility to always seek the light and I find the light in creating something.
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