Rope

Portraits of hope reflecting off a blade that bears my name. Hanging inches from my head, there is no light bright enough to bring my shadow back to life. A presence that the fortunate weren't predisposed to feel. My seance of surrender will fall upon deaf ears. Promises I have disowned appear before me resembling the outline of my soul. Unravel me, every sentence makes me sick. Bound and abandoned by a noose that lifts me off my feet. Hanging like a halo overhead, I know your rope was made for me. Fading, I fall backwards into the dust. Positioned vertically, but a casket knows to catch me. Buried only waist-deep in the earth, we carve the fading features of our silhouettes into our coffin doors. Hope is a blade that bears my name. I know your rope was made for me.