How many times have you been crucified by nails that aren’t yours? Not one soul believes in the sorrow that bleeds from the holes past the point of infection, and here you are, begging for some form of verbal medication for these little altercations. Hammers ram themselves into your bones, appendages ground to dust with every slam — you are past the point of battered, let alone recognizable. They say Rome hasn’t fallen in a day, yet it is said that we are made in the image and likeness of a god who has died a million times through strife and discrimination.
Perhaps we have died much longer before we were born.
What becomes of our second comings, if not false positives becoming true and truer negatives? No rectification can quench our unnatural and absurd thirst for salvation, for the messiahs of our time are but idols graced with the insight to incite what they describe as prophetically right — but they take as for fools don’t they? How dare they tell us how to dance, when this choreography is designed for those who can read the language of fire. It’s all hubris, as we should say!
Unfortunately, it is hubris that no one can claim.
How much of the excitement of a future that bothers us rings dissonance that breaks morals down to our bone marrows? No one likes staring at mirrors that stare back, and so the reflections that beg for our love become a subject of tragedy painted in skin, hair, and blood. I have seen secrets leak in different ways — from foaming mouths to empty drools in slumber — for they all look the same. What great misfortune is the cadence of a swing set on fire? We watch as our dreams melt into gas-like ashes, because of what has touched us differently has scarred us all the same.
Do you remember the way they tapped messages through their fingernails?
Let it ring faster than the church bells' tragic syncopation. The xylophones of heaven’s gate wreaks equal hell beneath the chambers locked by the void — the abyss with both an abundance and absence of ghastly echoes and screams. Pain comes naturally in dreams, yet this auditory infinity is divided into lifetimes we can’t understand —how predictably bothersome this must be. Empathy becomes a pipe dream in shame and sympathy, as they scour for remedies etched into thin veils of promises made past the years of their breath.
We are in the company of a raging kind of loneliness, and the poison of life forces us to succumb into a delirium beyond control.
Perhaps it is reality that is mere abject horror, defined by what cannot be. All things come to an end eventually, and we return to resting places we can only see in dreams.
What dignified fallacy is joy wrapped in suffering — I fear that the nightmare ends in me begging for more.