Lines From a Furnace

Have you ever read,
lines that came,
straight from the depths,
of dark despair?

Lines, that pulsate,
like a heart throbbing it's last?
They sound sad I must say,
and they remind me of my private sorrow.

Somewhere within me,
in some nook, some forgotten corner,
lies a crouching desperate sorrow,
and I must tread with care, and avoid,
the nook of which I do not know.

Sorrows are darker when they hide,
below the surface, dormant, unpredictable.
They kill you, from the very nook you dread.


I know of sorrows
that were born,
in an unknown nook,
waiting, sometimes forever,
to make that one lethal blow,
but I won't last,
for this wait is killing me slow.