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The Blood Road

Summary

We are interested in things we subconciously see in ourselves.

 

[A collection of poems]

 

Still Counting

Eyes set on the horizon.

The wind whispers past.

Golden rays beam down upon this wasteland.

Fingers graze over a rose just before it fades into another black memory. The rest of life lay still... like the will to sustain.

Shattered songs of birds still grasp onto the silence. Lips purse itself to a whistle and follow suit to the discord. Dissosance is the raven's lullaby. Singing softly, perched on the window sill until the moon flares bright. 

Traveling on the Cord of Twilight. Living things are the effigies that haunt. Grey eyes staring off ahead. No breath is made. Their hearts ruptured when they chose not to see.

They're just sleeping. It's all in their head.

One step at a time but not there yet. And always counting. The footprints on the ground. The fingerprints on the walls.

Silver streams of light shine from its birthplace. The soft hum of melancholy spills into this frequency. Listening to it's rhythm. Counting every beat. 

Living in the same dream everyday. Dying in the same nightmare everynight. 


Growing drained. Feet bleed upon the string. Almost falling. Going to.

Vision blurs until the sun and the moon are splotches of paint. Muscles become faint as the world is eaten by shadows. Laying hopes to rest for assessment clouds its vision.

Hanging by a thread, an endless slumber may quiet the tempest. It's gentle hands submerging in the blood of Wrath. The smell of death clutches onto cursed souls. 

The last one, however, is the whisper dying in the wind.

Pipe Dreams in Wake

Echoes chorus in the back of my mind.

While fireflies guide effortlessly to these voices.

Wandering from one vein to another, it's hard to say, "I'm okay."

 

Their colors melt off their bodies and no quick hand can save them.

Bleeding a world of black and white, I start to search for vibrant shades.

These dead echos begin to vanish into an undertone and hide behind walls.

 

Rotting away, their mournful cries keep singing me to sleep.

Longing to be somewhere I can't be.

Wishing upon dreams I'll never have.

 

I'd rather chop off my hand than give it to them.

Although, they know that The Reaper is no fool.

I'm lead only by their ghosts, still my feet trip over skeletons.

They may just be wisps in the air, but their undying glow is all I have.

 

Heart to Heart

Alone I sit in the room

where we used to play.

My head's just above an ocean of gloom.

I let the waves gently take me away.

 

We all fear what we don't know.

Invisible monsters lurking in our mind.

Just promise me you'll never let go.

After all, it's the world against our kind.

 

May our happiness fill our heart's vacancy.

May our skeletons turn to dust.

No one dies with decency.

We can always start a new life... we must.

 

Let's open the curtains and dance in the moonlight.

Drown ourselves in the music

because it's always our night.

For this isolation, I should soothe it.

Am I alone with this vision?

It's so hard to answer

when your heart's been given such an incision.

However, it's what makes me a good dancer.

 

Life's too short to live in another's skin.

Too short to obey the norm.

So, at the end we'll begin.

And in death we'll be born.

Dystopian Paradise

In a world that eats you, there is no haven.

Only a false god can make you optimistic.

But it's claws still rip it out.

 

It's kind cages can lock you in tight.

Not even the sun can smile at you.

Drinking your own madness has a sweet taste of poison.

 

Our realities are volatile clay.

Our minds are the artists tool.

So many shapes...

Her favorite is Stygian.

 

We used to see flowers and blue skies.

Now it's just the bleak road of Life.

Angels used to sing us to sleep.

Yet the Devil's violin keeps us happy.

 

In the absence of flesh, you hex their souls.

Banished from a world once utopian.

I lit a candle for morbid hearts...

since our dreams are kept in asylums.

The Martyr

His leathery skin was burnt under the blaze of angry Kings.

The fires licked his flesh to a lonely midnight,

but his eyes had the stain of a thousand suns.

 

O, how their hearts were never found.

As their God spoke prayers,

swords ripped through the air and bit off his horns.

Winter crimson painted their dishes.

 

Seconds ran the other way. 

Always, everything turned up lost...

So their only hope was to abandon it.

Whereas ghosts have a way to trap you.

 

No one would dare keep him.

His halo was a crown of candor.

Which was ripped by gentle hands

and torn by melancholy.

 

His sorrow fed upon him.

His heart poured into the earth.

Quenching the thirst of death...

Letting them be Kings in their sleep.