Chronicles Of The Torn Soul

A Poem by Webster

This is a story as it was told to me. A helpless soul that found its way. Individual everyday problems and pieces of life that stitched together like a vintage sewn quilt. Dedicated to the Torn Soul.

Nothing to say, muteness overload
The hustle is real, life oversold
Lost in the wilderness, the soul grows old
Prick me over and over, numb to the bone.

Old sorrows overpower, the glass never empties
Filled to the brim, cold chilled and guilty.
Frozen in time, cannot overturn
Glued to this chair, static and burnt.

Wanting for clarity, clear as the sky
But clowds never move, rains pour down and cry.
Fortune misspoken, futures foretold
Cannot help this loner, just grow old

Everything is broken, but nothing to fix
Prosperity in life, as life depicts.
Overrated and sad, green and silver
Gives me chills though, makes me quiver.

Given up for good, the static fastens
But statues don't move, yet appraise with passion
Why follow the cobble, make my own way
May be that dirt road, but onwards through that gateway.