The glass is solid and the contents still, a hand so steady that it would challenge the very meaning of calm as with measured breathe I take a sip of the liquid clear, the hollow wish that what lies within it would be an alternative liquid clear so to kill my mind for a night of tranquil thoughts.
A history full of unwanted relics, that with less noble intent linger to persist the idea that if I gave in to the sweet desire for eternal silence… Such seductive logic a regular temptation when faced with the world so cruel. To delve into despair with such willing frequency is not a thing the damned wish to endure; it is but merely a fractured reflection of the lust for chaos that underpins my self-destructive flare.
In the suns praising light I am to others a figure whole but for those that walk in the chasms of shadows, the places happy folk don’t even have to try to ignore, I am best represented in the darkness of pain drenched sorrow refined into a vintage to defy the purity of pure.
But who gives a damn about another melancholy soul in this world we drift through….
The darkened mirror, the shadow cast room, a man faces demons as into his own eyes he sees the storm, no glaring light to highlight the endless layers of flaws, wishing not to have to see those eyes set into the face he calls his own, such realisations too much to bear.
The jaded shades I wear through which my corrupted vision is forced to perceive all that surrounds, no concept of the positives of life as every action both maliciously cruel and wonderfully wholesome are given the same conceit as my paranoia can draw, to consider only the lesser motives to which we all are slaves and must endlessly serve. To experience the full wonders of my pessimistic view I would only offer the exercise of wearing sunglasses in a darkened room.
Angelic voices shout warnings from one side as from the other demons drag and claw, with my will to live standing upon the knife blade so sharp as to cut the untainted without so much as a care, the tainted already too wounded to notice they are so close to committing to a mortal fall. But what a nice shiny blade it is that for those who live on the borderline, who see it as so perfect a metaphor for the life they live, the life they endure.
But upon the edge, which way to fall?