I feel completely alone, in a sea of monotone. All around me are smiling faces, haunting places, little graces that elude and do collude to delude me into believing the strangest of lies. The strongest of ties, ropes on my mind, words, thoughts, plots. Am I dreaming? Was I dreaming? Am I rhyming, or whining? The thing is, I don't know anymore. The beautiful two who did understand, one is dead and the other a visage trapped in bondage with the courage to carry my luggage, though savage an image he creates and portrays of the putrid and sickly world which I live...
Long since gone are the days of innocence, of which I would play and then be flayed, scarred underneath the surface, a bard made backless, bootless, and brainless from all of dream's little lies. It is cruel to be told you can do anything in a world which detests you should you do as such. To set children up and knock them down, are we clowns? Jesters long since left to fester, pestered by the actor of good intentions, poor execution?
My heart and I are silent.
Isn't that gallant.
At least there was Paris, though such a name gives me chills, for it drills into my mind abhorrent memories of pain I couldn't fix through the pane, though I wracked my brain I had to refrain from being profane towards the source of such selfish amenities. Yet now I find my heart remains dormant, though to be blunt it was months ago, perhaps... Silence is appropriate?
My family ably and awfully argued in a bawdy, blindly manner, tearing through fabrications of albeit blurry images of happy homely lovely life. What's left is pushing me back against a wall, I'm about to fall, yet when I reach out, only the air is there.
I am alone.
Yet I feel nothing.
Yet I trust in the end, I won't be alone.
...I hope at least, else the crows will have a feast.