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A figure of despair staring into the nothingness, lost among life suckers. So |
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Small standing by the ocean sensing the rain, worn out from grieving through |
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a storm of rage. I have succumbed to sorrow, the hoary darkness and the |
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all-consuming silence, for I had such hopes and dreams, dreams that fell like |
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vapors through the summer air. I had such thoughts, thoughts that would crush |
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mountains and blunt the very daggers to my heart and yet the mere sliver of |
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hope sent to the corner to be lost among life's pain.... immortal. My bones |
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are weary; weary from this malignant mortality we hold on to with such grim |
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despair that it becomes all-consuming. In the glowering sickly green depths |
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of my misery I've drank deep textures and grotesque ecstasy it's elementary |
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splendor reminded of the the labyrinthine intricacies of being, the squalor, |
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the bewildering diversities and its lonely existence. A journey through a |
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half dream, each step a death. To slip through the cracks unnoticed or pause |
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and question the meanderings of time. The grey vastness we hold onto, The |
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glum adhesive that binds us through. No! |
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Hark! A football, the march of death |
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A hollow call to arms from the grave |
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A curator of dead souls brings us down |
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Is it a shadow of life or just some vision? |
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Apocalyptic dreams |
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Hark! A curator of our dead souls |
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Who is it that walks so solemnly through the graves? |
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Is it a shadow or just some vision? |
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Apocalyptic dream |
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Tracing patterns to bring us down |
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Who is it that walks? |
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The March of Death |
