The void between thought and emotion is filled by a vast ocean of the things that cannot be spoken but are whispered through the iris of a fallen man's quiet delusions.
The music of his heartstrings,
Delusion's intrusion of death's quiet solace,
He puppet to emotion's oration,
Sings to him in a choir's chorus,
I cannot engage,
Drive forward and escape,
thoughts disrupt rearrange,
Gears halt turning the page
Make and model,
Climb and follow,
To the precipice above
The riddled hollow below
I, he with rage,
Have eternity to face,
Sorrows and the stage,
Morrows of her darkened trace,
Hung in the afterglow,
The world's ashes blow,
Galling winds her ashes sow,
So much for the world below,
We'll fly high,
On the wind of thousand sighs,
We'll fly high,
And like Icarus we'll fall and die,
Crash on thorns who rise to greet
From beneath the roses where she quietly weeps,
Impaled like a piece of meat
The soul departs this lifeless heap.
