Unrest written on the walls,
a restless sadness sewn into your marrow.
From composed to utterly anxious in a manner of seconds,
wading through nothing but pure darkness.
Madness, they used to call this.
Carrying past lives around like the photo of a dear departed lover.
The burdens of your ancestors, kings, queens, slaves, grandparents and parents – all the same,
rushing through you, blurring your senses,
buried in your very essence.
Search deep down and you can find it,
drag it out from the great abyss.
Hayden Winston 