Another

My mind is blank
My soul is at war
I hear a knocking at the door
I open and I see a composite of myself
Made up of broken dreams and promises
There they all are, like dusty books on a shelf
Never finished, never used, never…
Trying to find something to say, something clever
The view is maddening and violent
As he sits there silent
Yet incomplete he seems, missing a limb or two
As if I am not finished
More dreams to kill, more promises to break
As if I will make the same mistake
Over and over again
Going in circles
Tied to a pole with a chain
Like Dorian’s portrait, he stood there and I wondered
Is he real, just so I can keep my sanity?
If I destroy him, would I go crazy, or would I be free?
Would I kill myself or would it be lobotomy?
Would I forget everything, or would it all flood my memory?
A twitch of his arm awakes me
And I muster up to say – Go to hell-
And disappears, but not before he says
-I’ll wait for you there-