To whence eyes looked forward, the price thier soul
For those who aspired, the cost too high
And whom stands a halt to progress, marked the fool
To whence eyes refuse to look forward and decline to play
The price is all humanity, which ever way we go
In which lies love, the head or the heart or alas a mortal game
To where lies pain, the soul, mind or percieved wrong
In what lies death, that of mental adsence or the fading of psyical form
What is it to be human, as I am that in all but who I know I am…
It begins oh so serenely on that star laden eve, a cover of light lacking darkness to hide this sinfully damned scene
All strolls along smoothly in a carefully choreographed cascade, till the dagger enters flesh swiftly in a manner that would make the word sabotage silently weep
To the fall a misstep carries the fated form to whence even demons do drunkly scream, a bar on your lonesome to mark as a gravestone happiness’s tomb
The damned do fit the fated bottle an awesome treat, as would a stream of blood from my fatally sliced wrist
He hath cast his will to the point it all depicts
A slightly slight of fated acts
The wheels to where he is bound will mark with stone a pit
As all his worth is refined into collections of words peppered with mournful wit
So the stale conversation and repeating words that hold little interest to your mortally morale lacking brain drivel on… a few feted tears over wine dribble miserably into existence as diner beckons. It’s horrifically public and dining out has as ever never dragged so much but at least something is happening… someone is having an emotional breakdown at your table and you don’t even consider it an event of note!
Shock plastered as a cream pie from a clowns hand decorates everyone’s faces as words are shared to placate the grieving party, diner is damn tasty and you wish not to waste money by leaving any of it, an emotionally broken and fragility ridden form fractures as it leaves the scene. Everyone else seems to shade themselves a new colour of scandalous shock, words of all flavours both criticise and acknowledge the simmering pain that hath bubbled over and spoiled the whole tasty affair of eating.
And you don’t care!
When untainted eyes hath blinkered sight into turmoil soaked reality any spike in emotionally straining events causes a stir, ranges of vision so narrow to ever expanding waves of sorrow find shock in such meaningless displays of painfully distain causing exhibitions of human weakness. Those tainted by the brutal ripping of such blessings as blinkers away from sight now corroded into darkest depths, each fatal downward step into that everlasting pit burning away another level of reactive shock others expect.
So use to things such as kitchen knives on flesh, catastrophic crumbling into distress otherwise feebly called breakdowns, violent outbursts of the moment and aftershocks of that wretched point of time, and having to eat in one room as things slamming rock bottom occur in where you wish you could watch TV… MEANS NOTHING
And the only thing casually uttered to those undeserving of/protected from the secret tortures unwontedly witnessed by your coldly glazed eyes, so severely severing of common realities, are the serenely spoken phase “Seen worse”.
Otherwise known as ‘How fucked up can you get’!
Otherwise known as ‘Immune’
A deal to be done for destruction will doth beckon an edge on the day
An hour less to enjoy the sun in all the fading light may offer in salvations way
The clock that eats my time hath ticked and tocked into every second I see it die away
The panic yet to come calls a storm on the horizon saturated with grey and hailing clouds
Hope launches one more desperate plan in facing odds a gambler would give no eyes
Six foot of rope emerges from a darkening day’s ditch of six foot deep
In that rope a noose has began to tie tight the binds by which optimism chokes
How horridly the time flies into the lessoning hours of where the deal turns downward bleak
How the silence of the mind falls screamingly into the fatal closing act of an impending end
All consciousness falls numb to the final moments
As all in the eternities game plays on an act of impossible
Beyond the act of finality a fated thing is to survive
To feel fatality and know that the end eludes this mortal hurt
I am a man of demons
For which I will pay the price
For in the lacking void of angels
There is little left in way of choice