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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Thursday, August 6, 2015

(139)



The fire burns,

Don’t be mistaken.

It’s a violent flame under a crimson sky,

A secret, shamelessly veiled and crying.

Raging rivers of boiling tears roll recklessly in hiding,

Blackness stuffs screams desperately, fumbling,

But rips at the seams

Letting a shrill, staring brightness loose in the eyes.

Rising thunder rumbles threateningly to the surface

As shadows of forgotten silhouettes

Flit across the wall of memory.

There’s a crippling compulsion to strangle voices

That echo in a hollow soul,

Undying unsuppressed unrelenting.

Knees suffer jeering bruises

From wretched hypocritical praying,

Obvious answers to questions unasked

Conspicuous, beneath layers of denial and lying.

There’s a way out,

Somewhere.

There has to be a way out,

A way to end it

To cheat destiny,

A way to take a last insufferable breath

And then walk away and leave it all behind finally.



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