Maybe I'm not meant to know of this fragile thing called life
Or resemble any bitter being known to live in this dark void that is the lies in our lives,
The cryp.tic views of the unknown codes of silence,
the whisper in your ears like the sea,
A {murmur} of discontent and fading sunshine
Always floating, wraith-like in the bitter ghost of compassion,
Spurned by the angel's hand of fury,
In the arm.s of the mis.trust.ed.
The weeping sand of time truly cry for none but themselves,
As the words of the sepentine angel writhe in your head,
Grasping at straws,
The silence is broken by the sound of your
Br//oken.ScReams...
.
.
.
.
My given word is not enough to save from the darkness cast about you,
The will of these bleeding hands are all used up,
And the faith of the dead are expired and worn.
On the battlefield of the synapse highway,
Your 9mm handgun won't save you from the grenade you dropped,
Without a pin, behind you.
You can't run away this time.
You can't hide [from yourself],
No matter the illusions you weave late at night...
You are still the same as you are in the light of the day.
You are still the deer stuck in the headlights
Of the approaching 1967 Chevy truck,
Ready to be splattered across the windshield.

Maybe in my ig.norance I will realize I am nothing to judge another, or to know anything of life,
But until that day...
I still say you ran away.