Born with purpose, I fancied: Rage
Not yet embittered was I, merely pawned to mild anger.
Brave. Hero. - patriots all
soon to find true desolation, then discarded
forsaken bucklers for those who knew better.
Empty.

Spirit forced out over time, like blade that cuts until dulled and
soured by so much work, such weight that it bends and breaks.
Time drags on, each second eons - folded into its multitudinous,
a chance for you to see your failures, study, and know your insignificance.
Despite your exertion, sweat, tears, it was wholly vain, useless.
Left with the taste of the ashes in your mouth, the only victory: Spartan, Pyrrhic, Null.

Rage now for the world so paradoxical; decided on being cruel.
Rage for this life where ghoulish memories whisper of the death of doves -
and drown you in bile of homunculi: grinning mouth with wicked bite and poison fang;
So bleed beneath beast’s maw - look into that pit of bleakness, the end of hope.
Rage for their hypocrisy, maggoting the world while uttering pious prayer.
Prostituting their soul, feeding lust-filled vanities
visage adorned with care while devouring the flesh of angels.
In utter darkness.

Unable to look at common man without hatred, impersonal, but present.
I lack even the will to see those I used to love
What joy is there in that? unable to process.
Desperately avoid them, aghast, horrified at the thought -
worlds collide, though they were never meant to touch.
Huddled mass of quivering flesh. Old. Alone. Broken.
Unable to die; unable to live.
The best memories, a dreary monument to times that I shall never see again.
Though I lived, breathed, loved...
all is dust.
Forever dust.