An Old Classic Reworked

To whom does the keeper of secrets and sins confide his own

When only God’s and demons rival what he knows

And the broken fissures of the world he calls home

Is the only fractured and tainted image of others he has known


Figures dark and fools who ignore the warning flames

A shadow of a figure lingers on the edge of everyone’s vision, fated death in his coldly blank eyes

Honest person’s subtlety shuffle to the farthest corner away as less positive hauntingly linger with glasses in hands, each with a suggestive nod of respect to the shadows where our figure occupies

Lacking in intelligence or self survival the most stupid turn without an air of caution to offer joyously toned platitudes of hope and happiness imbued

The figure casts stony glares with ill warnings carried with the deadest of tones, a warning carried with hellion implying words and tone

The fool turns to anger and threatens, insults and accuses the figure with ill advised energy in each dangerous term of insulting blindness to the flames in each of the figures ominously darkening eyes

A final warning thrown as daggers from an assassin’s hand, each a miss but each warning tone close enough to let even the most lacking intelligence know to safely retreat in apologetic step and begging form

Stupidity fuelled platitudes hath turned a shade of foolish insult, to anger carried so insultingly superior sounding that even angels of strong will have conspicuously stepped a thousand yards in opposite direction

Casually rising, eerily calm delivery for the hatred wielding flurry of poisonously flared verbal assaults and with a burning pitch of resentment in every razor sharp word blazingly thrown, the sinisterly escalating figure becomes as overshadowing as an evilly possessed god

The quiet of the room reflects the stunned silence in each fear afflicted eye in that pale frozen face plastered on the fool, retreating so quick as to neglect even the most basic concept of stability demonstrated in the frequent and amusing stumbling run our fool adopts to escape the room

From godly rage in every creeping tendril reaching from the largely scaled form the figure previously grew to, now slinking coolly back into the huddled mass of blackness that clings menacingly to the deep shadows

The room settles easy with the ghosts gripping glasses hunching back into broken images of former humans, complete souls pushing the edges of where light allows with weary movements, so to let the shadows bleak presence remain alone in their crippling hell

The figure’s demons satisfied and now lying low in the more warmly appearing face and features of that previously ungodly mad postured thing he had become, illusions of calm shimmering in perfections reflection of every wretched detail the dark figure has grown to detest but must project


An Old Comrade Passes

To Frame Medium

An old comrade in arms, now resting in the great garage in the sky

Thankyou for your service old buddy, and if I see the ghost of a dark blue fiesta gunning it along the back roads to Ware…

Well; give me a beep and I’ll offer you a well deserved salute!

Little Beauty, War Hound; Rest In Peace 

Running a Fated Race

To run a thousand miles a wild pace of unabated pace is as pointless as the knowledge of death a mere second before the fated event, equal if not cruelly on that same torturous level as when every fibre of hope leaves with not so much as a coldly scribbled note.

From which do we run?

Even if we know the futility of trying to escape in desperate fashion the most unavoidable damning fate, so should the questioning logic not insidiously twist into the question of; why do we bother to run?

See all happiness flaunted brazen and boldly large in everyday places we are forcible dragged into on a daily basis of painful survival, every happiness festering person unknowing in the war that life wages on the condemned, as with grossly spewed platitudes the acidic burn of well intentioned words erode further to the fatalistic core of broken forms.

“I am not of the living, nor the resting dead but in that place where all a demons cries will not bring pain as it would to my betters, to me and the broken legions such demonic choirs inspire quieting storms of world ending fury”

To stare deeply dark faces down which go by the taunting names which are the same as our names, till it reveals the darker still truths all who see those faces grudgingly know; it is the mirrors jagged edge into which we look.

“An open wound bleeds all of my soul’s most positive self to the ending flames of everything I hate of my nature, now the gravely clung to warmth that keeps the razor from my wrist as fresh promises of hope now lure me to the edge of the cliff”

So run we will and make speed on bleeding feet, make worthless haste in haze ridden dens of poisonous fields of depressions fruits and turn coldly from formerly warm places where old friends hath turned to symbols of all the painfully lacking pits branded with hollow happiness’s promises lost, those pits we hazardously step around for survivals fated sources of a declining will to live.


Comment Roundup PT2

“I’ve had a lifetime of those nights” lamented the darkly reflective drunk, his lingering glass haunting the gravely occupied bar top

“She was the trigger, my nature the gun” a shot glass fired back as fast as the barman’s delivery can fuel each measured chapter of the destructive act

“The hour of that eternity, the second my sanity left” the barman lets the drunk further into a bottles drifting stupor retreat, merci ridden is such an act when faced with the grim looks he serves every deathly night he fuels the internally dead

“Now let me never be sober, or I’ll catch a razor blade death” as into the night fades all that makes the barfly’s mood so stained an unhappy shade of black, blissfully darker with each liquid bullet downed in increasingly uncoordinated shots

“And if that bitch says I raised a finger” a pause in bleak spirited pace, slurring words to a timely length equal to the rope each depressive uses to tie their noose

“Let it be known, lies and an empty bottle carry more weight in the eyes of a judge” the shot glass dismissing its contents to the floor, the intended drinker passing out

Not a grimace of pain upon impact with the floor many have called a bed, but a look of content to mark the hallowed event to be free of conscious memory of all he drinks to forget

Recent Comment Roundup

                        The edge of suicide is the limit of life
      A knife on the wrist a dark lament
               The time until the deed full of unhappy moments
As into the fading black I release a final breathe

—- *** ! *** —-

“I would rather live one day as myself than a lifetime as a lie
As I must die inside to play role that others demand”

—- *** ! *** —-

Ask a depressive the remaining time they have to claim
That’s like asking a raindrop how long it takes to fall
The resulting fatal conclusion of each very much the same…

—- *** ! *** —-

“A smile in lonely silence carries more emotion than a forced grin in social survivalism”


A Thankyou to all those whose brilliant posts inspire me