Literary Work
OBSCURE SELF Mark J. Mitchell
Late spring rain. Gray skies in a shared dark wood. You’ll find your unformed self here. Not quite night but never morning now. You know you should look—it’s hidden—that kiss—your mislaid soul. The skies stay masked. You can’t turn to the right without stepping on a stranger’s fresh tears or hearing a false confession. Just peace— your humble request. Tangled in cold fear you won’t stand still. Blood drips from folded leaves. It pools underfoot. You can’t walk. Your soles get snared, sticky. No whisper of a breeze disturbs a black pond. A soft, foreign voice sings small words, showing you she’s a mother— not weeping, but some lullaby. Her choice is a hot blade that just misses your cold face—slowly. The wind’s forgotten brother. Gray rain. Vacant sky. Masks crack underfoot— the burnt remains of family portraits. No animals haunt you—to chase, to dispute your stance. You won’t be herded to your soul. Pray through a fractured night. Don’t fail this test.
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