Ode of Demons

My quest for answers in loss has reopened gaping wounds.

I am removed of pain, save my dagger-gaped vessel.

I am awash in apathy, apart from the hate in me that dwells in contrasting symmetry from the fatalities walking a top this soil.

There's no place for me, no land that I could inhabit in harmony. I am too wholly different, too unholy and bedeviled by the self. 

Wandering stranger, give me life. Take thine breath and breathe unto me the gift of accursed infinity. 

Wandering stranger, have you a plan for me? I listen obedient, content in my acquiescence to the will of all things too heavy to bear, beyond the capacity of this feeble self.

I cannot stomach the sight of you anymore, you are a constant reminder of the loss I have suffered, the ephemeral nature of your kind. 

I have lost before, Wandering stranger, have you any clue? I and I are not we, not us, not them. There is legion, and they are many, but I and I am a part of nothing, brushing dust from my soles. 

Wandering stranger, Wandering stranger, Wandering stranger I ask this one thing of you: do not remember me in the void, do not call out for me. Your calls are a tether to the frailty within me and here with these wayward vessels there is anything but comfort.