Light flickers in the cold corner of a room,
upon a desk pages lay empty lit by the rays of the moon.
The journal tugs at your shedding snakeskin,
all the years falling away telling you to heal old wounds within.
You grab the pen in the aim of exhaling an essay,
perhaps starting with a scribble to describe the recent onset of decay.
Perhaps it was all self-inflicted,
to keep a longing heart protected.
No matter the effort of unattainable perfection
you turned away from any attempt of affection.
Is it the desire to be left alone, to deny change,
to deny the chance of a love exchange?
It could all be true:
the one wanting more is often the one to remain a statue.
In spite of the inner hell released and written down
nothing will turn this scorned perspective around.