Another Stupid Poem

What is that source, that Platonic ideal, that draws us down toward the object of our pain, to find lines drawing from disparate parts back to this idol of our suffering and fixes our eyes thus? Let us not see the smiles, or feel the fresh breezes, or know kindness. Let us cling to old pains, provide succor and warm, damp, fertile ground so they can be like new, reborn in the present as passed spirits possessing the living.

Where once a person, vibrant and alert, a shell fueled by burning the compressed matter of another era. A thick black soot veils the eyes, impairs the lungs to only shallow breaths. The coals are cold, the skin ashen, the blood is ice.