Won't you come sailing with me? by Pumpo The Clown

On the ship that sails the dark waters of my mind I sometimes sit near a kept fire abit to close and I recoil from its heat. But now I want it to burn and melt away this flesh from my bones. I want it to finish what it stared so many years ago. I cut my anchor and am now adrift in my own mind with no safe harbor from the approching storms that I see on the horizon.

With the promise of a final end I set sail in the hopes that this will be my last adventure. My only companion is the whispering flames that refect my past, a past that I walked away from so long ago. They call me closer and I give them a bent ear too often and so I am burned, the burning flesh and the scent of singed hair fills my nostrils and I choke. But I return again and again to hear what the flames have to whisper. With every burn I feel less and less so I numbly place more into those flames, looking to feel more.

Like a freezing man in a Winter's storm I desperately look for more to put in the fire to keep it burning at all costs. Never realizing what I am burning I place hands and eyes into the hungry flame that comsumes with no end. I continue to burn the very things I will need to get to my storm, to my end. Sails, masts and all matter of riggings have been burned away and my ship is nothing but a hull. My wheel and rudder is long gone and without both I find no direction. Yet the fire burns, it whispers words of such doubt and remorse that I have no choice but to listen.

I cover what is left of my face with the remains of my scarred hands and I weep at my failure. But I cannot cry I had burned my eyes long ago in the hopes of never seeing again and now I regret this featureless face that I have come to think of as normal.

I ask of you my dear reader, When will it all end?