Thirty Nights Ago

(Reference to poem: Black Blood)

Sitting by the corner of my bed,

Where I bled within thirty nights ago,

Forced to reminisce the bleak of time

That I hit my head hard to forget.

The ail that I thought had left for good

Has returned and split me.

Each of me wandering between 

The painful past, so pure of pain,

And the less petrifying, but unwanted

Today that throttles me to torment.

It all returns and compels shiver,

For the closure is closing for all of time.

I stand and stare at the corner of my bed,

And behold a younger me in tears, 

In ever so unknown fears,

Clinging on to find a twig in an ocean

Of deadcrop, dead with hail and rainstorm.

Gasping on for little sighs,

To breathe and wish for the air to warm

His cold soul, chilled with terror 

Of he knows not what.

I distract myself from blurry visions of a gone past,

Put my thoughts to elsewhere,

In hassles of practicality and happening.

But all turns vain, for my blood is blackening.

The black blood is fear

And the black blood speaks,

In a language I learnt thirty nights ago.