Too many nights these eyes have
spent wandering the lonely and vast
eternal indifference of a starlit sky, searching desperately for a voice.
Your cry. You walk through a darkened coridoor of a life. One which has kept
you held paralysed and sore as heart
sinks and soul bleeds whilst suffering adores, every avenue it can lending
itself to strife. Tears aid in a conquest
and help digest the fears, feeding
strength to a battle won more often
than none, to the pain within yourself
after the bleakness has come.
Only the sweet melody strung,
reminiscent of youth and a time once begun can console what appears,
deep and malicious cutting surface to
bone throughout the memory of years.
Nobody is home. No god appears.
A woeful existence you desperately long
to revere. So now to open your own
wrists in silent protest, and sit
loosened to life dressed in the
robes of a slow death.
A violent pacifist, surrendered to both
sides during the war with on your last breaths, a fight in which you both adore and must deplore through contest.
A self titled suicide, written using the crimson blood that finds itself now
painting the floor against your paled feet.
Transient artist for death born of this treason, your declination, deceit
and unrest a catalyst for the end,
but with untold reasons.
R