Salvation

It starts as fascination

Some flirtation
 

An overwhelming sensation 

The feeling of elation
 

And expectation

Oh the anticipation 
 

Then the hesitation

And deliberation
 

The reservation 

Before the realization
 

It’s merely a temptation

And has no foundation 
 

So to relieve the frustration

Use your imagination
 

And possibly a little vibration

For your own salvation

Patience

patience torments with promises of tomorrow

although strength extends a friendly hand

 

frustration invites you in for a brew
whilst tiredness squishes you tight

 

change wanders absent mindedly
as life kicks balance out from under you

 

fate pulls up a chair
and sits on the sidelines laughing


Linking up with Texture Tuesday.

Where Despair Resides

'Frustration' simmers under the surface, a permanent resident these days.  'Pressure', usually happy to simmer alongside decides today is not that day.  Working itself into a frenzy it froths and bubbles spilling over into a caustic puddle.

 

Sidestepping them 'Patience' holds out its arms, cradling her as it tries to soothe.  Relaxing into the embrace she begins to feel 'Patience' pulling away, running in circles around her before bolting towards the horizon.  Catching hold of an entrail she grips tight but feels 'Patience' grow taught in her hand . . . stretched to the point of breaking. 

 

'Irritable' and 'Cranky' are close by and launch themselves onto either shoulder for a better view.  Making themselves comfortable, settling in for the duration.  Cocking her ear she listens for the familiar 'twang', bracing herself for the jolt backwards as she realizes this sudden movement is the snapping point.  There lying at her feet she finds 'Patience' in pieces on the floor.

 

Closing her eyes she takes a deep breath and opens them again only to wish she'd kept them closed.  For in the distance is the 'Pit of Despair' with its strange allure.  Whispered promises swirl around her reminiscent of a sirens song.  They encourage her to draw closer, to dip her toes into the inky black hole.  But she's travelled this path before, she knows upon breaking the surface it will claw and tug at her clothing, pulling her under with the strength of quicksand.

 

She's heard of detours to avoid it but can she remember.  Wracking her brain she finds it lacking.  It's contents marred.  Shooting a flare into the night sky she hopes to draw 'Sleep's' attention for 'Sleep' has the power to help.  Trouble is its vision and hearing aren't quite what they used to be.  Will 'Sleep' see the flare?  Will it recognise it for what it is . . . a call for help?  She sits and waits as day turns to night and the trail of the flare becomes nothing more than a spec in the sky.