Indigo Desolation



INDIGO DESOLATION


 Under a sky smeared with grime,  

where stars are just faded glitter,  

I stumble through the wreckage of my own making—  

a lost soul in the alley of regret.


The night’s a blanket of filth and forgotten dreams,  

no comfort in the scattered, indifferent stars,  

flickering like streetlights on their last legs,  

mocking me with their cold, distant shine.


Every glint up there feels like a punch,  

a reminder of every foolish mistake I’ve made,  

a constellation of guilt stretched out  

like a neon sign saying, “You’re a mess.”


The darkness wraps around me like a cheap coat,  

no warmth, just the scent of old failures  

and the silent screams of a thousand “what-ifs,”  

each one gnawing at my insides.


Stars, you miserable bastards,  

I’m drowning in the mess you don’t even notice.  

Here I am, a damn wreck of a human,  

and you’re just out there, indifferent,  

as always.


G.



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