Lonely God

WHEN THE PARTY’S OVER 

Lazarus at the Rich Man’s Gate.   1886.

Bronnikov Fyodor. Russian 1827-1902. oil/canvas.

Would you still whisper to me while I’m hurting,

Even if it’s not the beautiful kind of hurt?

Bloodshot eyes, tear stained cheeks,

Bruised knuckles and clawed at skin.

Words are all that’s holding me up.

Words are all that’s pulling me down.

If only the voices wouldn’t yell,

If only they’d whisper.

What was life before insomnia,

The pillows, too used to my frightful whispers and tears,

Know me best,

In all of you.

I’m crying on this side of the door,

Don’t ask me to open it.

Don’t ask to come in, again.

Could you just whisper to me from your side of the door?

I promise, I’ll lean into the silhouette of your voice,

Till the door ceases to be.

And I’m leaning on you,

If you’ll whisper right back.

There’s times I won’t be able to get up.

Don’t pull me up,

Or I’ll look for you each morning.

Just whisper to me,

That it’s time to start living again.

Trust me,

And not the voice in your head,

Telling you depression can be kissed away, you can’t pamper me out of it, I wish it were that

Easy.

Will you be here?

I promise I’ll listen.

If you promise to whisper.

~~~

“the silhouette of your voice” is absolutely stunning imagery and it makes my heart go “woah”

And goodness the “you can’t pamper me out of it” is SO hard-hitting and wonderful, and so true and I love it so much

@sassysousa fam check this out!!

GRIS | 2018