#1
so much purple here
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A lone star looks upon a crescent gazing with its light at the vulture. We circle underneath, worshipping myths; but their mocking laughs turn us around. A star's shone its light onto a moon, the grime, an everlasting obstacle enclosing them both. They urge to plead to beg for food - eyes. Yet their dim buried hearts fail to show truth. Instead, augment their grime and corrupt their crime: they were quick to turn to mankind.

"We the dark cannot have light", expelled an honest throat from a lying crowd - the only throat in the dying shroud - "our nails will chip and bleed our fingers will break and scream our arms will wear and wail our climb is not an easy one: you mustn't corrupt the corrupt, we dream not of incandascence but of the death of all lights".

Our enlightenment struck fast, travelling at the speed of - what was it? The wires rooted in our hands passed colours through the nails, onto canvas then page to ear. The chromas shone dearly did but do. They did show but that wouldn't do.

In December my newest view was just mountains and clouds and winter-dead trees, but now a freight train hangs from my neck and my eyes like front-lights scuff the pavement grime with so much fury like grinding your teeth when you sleep on a fever. The boisterous engine now overheated with the mud in its veins arching my back the wrong way, or the realist way. My sleep today was yesterday's - everyday's the same dream - and my awakening tomorrow's. I live in a beast's time, the morrow I never see and the night is a cushion for my calves filled with finely ground ice. The mind that occupies my space serves as a tip of the scales, more effervescent by the dream and slowly vaporizing to be inhaled by sullen warriors of the lowest class.

Today I can smoke and taste and drink and stay up and watch gladiators joust out my window, just how I like it. I can take a breath from my nose without slipping into a manic coughing fit, I can take pain killers not because I am in pain but because I am in PAIN. My slouching back straightens when I lie face up, and I can taste and drink and smoke as though this isn't where I really am. I can pluck wound steel, I can keep my forlorn eyes dry, I can covet death not because of duty. I am free of the fever.


Until tomorrow, or when the next song demands.
Last edited by ali.guitarkid7 at Apr 2, 2012,