Indeed
Stolen shadow echo trace Be still your sullen ashen face Harken back upon the age Toe the line and burn the page Wish your watchful wearing well Turn the treadmill there in hell Bitter wine from bitter seed In truth in view in you indeed Stolen shadow scattered space Be still my fickle fallen face Behold bestride back to the age Dead the line and tear the page Watch my wishful wicked well Tread the turnpike down in hell Bitter ride on bitter steed In truth in view in me indeed
Cool piece. Repetition and beat. Thanks for the read.
This poem feels like someone wrestling with their own reflection, trying to understand the parts that hurt.
There’s a tired honesty in those “ashen” and “fallen” faces, like emotions that have been carried too long.
The repeated structure makes it feel like the same struggle is happening twice once outside, once inside.
Burning and tearing pages hits close to home; it’s that urge to start over when life feels too heavy.
The image of a treadmill in hell is painfully real, capturing that sense of moving without progress.
Still, there’s something strangely gentle in the way bitterness is acknowledged instead of hidden.
The shift from “you” to “me” makes the poem suddenly intimate, like a quiet confession slipping out.
It’s as if the speaker finally admits they’re not just observing the pain they’re living it.
The rhythm gives the whole piece a heartbeat, steady and troubled at the same time.
By the end, it feels like someone letting you overhear their private struggle, hoping it makes them lighter.