Sorrow

He hung suspended by madness, orchestrating his motionless descent.
Ascending only to fall, again, compounding agonies torment.

To offer her hope was cruel and foolish, he knew this, and so pain was born, from beauty, by a beast, so happiness diminished forlorn.

And the beast recoiled, biting at the leash, biting at the chains, tearing at the walls, tearing at the bindings, and pulling wildly at the reins.

How his cage felt small, smaller still the emptiness of promise, smaller still the hand of hope.
Smaller still the will to continue, attached to an ever tightening rope.

For now the beast was wounded, for he wanted and he needed, and he writhed in the agony and the loneliness of separation, fighting and loosing against a suffocating frustration.

Abandonment, that thing that bruised his psyche, that thing that churned the deepest silt.
Like a tempest his storm surged, and then, then there was sorrow and guilt.

Not even the perfection of the morning could offer release.
Not even the gentle touch of her words could alleviate the beast.

The silence shattered, and out poured sorrow.