Like a Mundane Maybe.

By Prashastha Beryl.

It would be this, that, a chaotic whatever…

from the trenches of my soul arrives this dread that seems to stay forever. 

Amidst stillness when I settle to rest an almost melancholy which I begin to trust.

That’s when I reflect, too much, a must.

That’s when I expect, forceful return, my horrors persist, unjust. 

This terror that’s become a dear part of me, into my soul I view

the way my eyes perceive of what is, nothing added new.

Commas added after each one they've become completely one with me,

 how I execrate it happen, and how it carries out like a mundane maybe. 

Height of this, that, and a crusading whatever… 

At sky’s feet, a precipice, and how I find its grandeur.

All of this, a hopeful attempt to mask my fright, 

Beauty that I seek, I find, a false solace in my veiled disquiet.

At the same cliff, I come with, eye to eye.

In this detested chamber, my dread and I.

I greet it with a kiss that it descends everytime,

I adore this harbor, an aftermath that robs a heart of every dime.

A sigh of relief , and a hopeful belief that I harnessed my mind

Pulling it back, saw a war unwind.

But the trepidation of happening that forever lurks,

A gruesome rending that surely unfurls.

Just when I try to reckon my sheep,

Inevitable boulder, wrecks my mountain too steep.

By Prashastha Beryl.