They'll love me for my ambition,
Even when my indecision
Begets indifference.
Heading the resistance,
Inspiration paints pictures
Of that limitless Eden.
Luminous credence
Enlightening every heathen
With lies to believe in.
He reveals my freedom
Receding in the horizon,
(The end. My zion.)
But that bygone field of dreams
Has been cut down by streams of ink.
Because the Outlet needs release,
Pen unsheathed,
As godless words bleed,
From his quill tip.
Thoughts unfit for his angels,
Pages. Each mangled,
Tangled in liquor laced nicotine;
Every swing of his sword rings
Misery,
The beautiful brush strokes beaten
senselessly;
A ronin, drunken on self indecency,
He is slave to none,
And usurper to won ton
Destruction.
He feeds the last son,
To a throneless kingdom.
My Desire rends emotion from flesh;
The artist then blessed to rest
In agony,
Dreams buried in fallacies.
This last son callously
Butchers our capacity
To live in blissful ignorance.
One last kiss on the lips of innocence,
And not a soul stirs on the precipice
Of our arena.
Dreadfully peaceful,
Amidst uneasy silence of no equal.
These eyes open to the quiet dark,
Razorblades waltzing to the beat of my heart,
I too, forget when sanity stopped.
I am awake.
