If there ever was a time in which mercy as a means of kindness was true, it would be in this moment.
It would be kindness that I would be receiving had the world bestowed upon me something in the way of hope for such a thing ever being present. There could be much more begging on my part, but then I often find such things futile as I believe that there is nothing real or unreal, close or some ways off that would bother to come to my aid.
I feel like a bullet that has taken a spiraling flight from a gun that has never even desired me in the cartridge. I detest being alone. Mercy is at the hands of others but my reach does not even graze their fingertips.
I am a quiet extension of a former, more enchanting, self. There was a point when contentment would have me bare my teeth to the pain of being an outsider, and my charm could satisfy those that understood the luxuries of being a singular being amongst others of the same rogue variety. A bar full of strangers drinking from empty glasses was a room that had my name on it. Sung on the lips of every breathless singer and on every smooth note of the piano keys.
A rude wakeup from that dream has left me shattered and picking up the pieces for all the years I've bothered to remember. I found that kindness threw in her cards a bit prematurely in the game, and the mercy I thought would finally begin to stay is now the golden dust in a stagnant light stream that cascades from the empty nightclub window onto the used up old dance-floor where my mind sits now, praying for mercy to the angels that never came.
Perhaps this time around they may yet remember this lost soul still in the tender Chicago lit glow of the 20's.