The Prisoner of Subsistence

Fear clinging like moths,
Existence is such a chaos,
Midst the tumultuous seas,
Where storms refuse to cease,
To breathe seems less of an effort,

 Survival losing its gist,
Through the rising mist,
Darkness looms around,
I can barely see the ground,
To be is like a mission, without the key 'abort',

 The Other world seems to be calling,
Away from the tongues of material drooling,
To smile and laugh is such a mess,
Soul yearns to depart for an exceptional digress,
Wondering how to cut the subsistence short,

 Seeking abode
In the city of the Lord,
I mind not being a prisoner,
Locked in the loneliest and highest tower,
At least truth will be safe from the falsities' extorts........

(c) S.S








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