I used to write about butterflies,
About peace and love rather than demise.
But now all I dream and all I see,
All I write are of visions of stitches in lips and eyes.
Blood and gore and dirty whores,
Worlds of pain and rage.
Twisted thoughts of my estranged.
Gone are the butterflies,
In their place have come graves.
I write of lies….
Of deceit and of a child's anguished unheard cries,
Of a mother's loss and a man's betrayal,
Of a friend's sacred bond torn and shorn.
Of a faceless god,
Of a feared ancient creature,
Of the Anti-Christ.
Of things you fear and things you crave,
Of lust and trust….
Of a pile of dust.
A circle of ashes,
And a well of loss.
A withered rose in a field of flames,
Falling posies scattering the ground.
A time old power crumbling to dust.
And so it grows and swells,
Thickens and decends.
A layer of pussy crust,
An infection spreading,
Through the cut of those refusing to accept…
What they fear as the end is merely where we begin.
I used to write of pretty things….
Silk and lace… kittens and ribbons.
Peace and love of a contented mind.
But now all I dream,
And all I see,
Reflected back when I peer into the cracked mirror…
Are the scars of my stitches that once were there,
The scars of where I clawed them out,
Tearing tender flesh and lashing out.
But the worst scar… the one no one can see but I still can feel,
Is the brand of betrayal seared into my soul.
No more sweet dreams,
Of a world serene.
Just haunted shadows,
Dwelling and lurking below the surface.
Just barely cloaked,
Just barely unseen.
A jagged abyss,
That devours me always.
Swallowing me whole,
Just when I get close to being free.
Constantly dangling,
False hopes before my face.
Adding more perverse unpleasant detours,
Warped and bitter in their ways.
To this already doomed and destined fate.
Damned I may be,
But at the end of this path,
More than hell awaits.
What I sought I found,
Now the fox no longer the hound.
My price I've paid but not yet in full,
My undoing is my own,
My bed or grave it's all the same.
I have made it well and soon I'll end the game.
I used to dream of things so sweet….
So soothing and pretty,
A gentle breeze- a calming rain…
Of a perfect life in a perfect place.
No stitches no pain,
Just a calm illusion of a wistful, long gone dream.
Now no sweet dreams,
No illusions of what once was but never will be,
Just harsh visions and knowledge or the coming reign.
One last play,
One final hand.
A parting shot…
One more piece to complete the puzzle….
To end this game.
One chance is it,
My final bit.
Before I depart,
My final vow,
Before my thread is cut.
And my soul shall remain forever unfound.
