Clutches of self

When every step you tread becomes untracable
Can you leave a trail behind, still?
Sunken deep in the craters of your passion
A flicker of hope for a hopeless fill.

People come and people go
Even in obliteration, leave behind the scars of their embrace
So do you, in debilitaton of your dysfuntional life,
Someone's insanity, someone's grace.

You be someone's muse
In the inevitable abandonment that follows
You seek your own
Apres-coup, it always is so, caught in your own tragic throes.

So what fulfils the desires of your masochistic soul?
How does reparation alight?
If it's always an eternal circle you traverse,
Is the wish for a spiral truly pined?

It's always a paradox.... a voluntary plunge into masochistic delights and the screams that follow; the desperation for a witness and the silencing of shame... Who's shame is it that we silence?