Death of the MInd

The death of the mind is slow to come,
It lingers on,
And plays old fears,
Hurrying like an old librarian,
To fetch his favourite book of gore,
Reading through passages long forgotten,
Kicking skeletons of victories lost,
Whimpering at the door of hurt,
From all those silent nights ago...

Soon, the fireworks from the crowd of thoughts,
Catch fire and burn the threadbare linen of bliss,
Blackened and charred on the deathbed,
The mind continues to breathe,
Until one day,
Beaten and weary,
He feels the cooling bandage of love,
Being laid on the feverish forehead,
By the gentle hand of God,
The hand that never questioned,
The choices he made or the people he bled,
The hand that only wished to pull him out,
Form the dark pit he had fallen into.