manuscriptx
New Member
...I never understood it until now. Think of the games we play; the names we say or the days we age. We are not innocent, nor do we shame our self with lie and deceit. It is the story we tell ourselves which heal us not. Behind every corner, every elbow is a pain that carries us not; squelching the anguish is a sorrow that tears us not. The sins we save for our dying wish and a right to exist. A lie not yet told. A miracle not yet prayed for and a cost not yet sold. The price we pay for everything we have is in exchange for something a little sweeter than this. Life has no meaning, the plains, the oceans, the foul smell of hope and a wonder if each part was real or imagined. I can see over the horizon and notice a particular meld; pretty colors of gold and blue, a mighty glorious dance across moonlight twilight. Dying time starts here. I can feel my eyes grow weak and heavy with lasting breath. Those that fall over me tell me to pray, telling me to hold on for one more last chance at happiness, forgiveness from a star above.
I never understood the chance we take until now. I am not innocent. My death is but a time relapse. A window into the soul; let us release upon this earth a heaping revenge I fail yet seek, a time where madness was at a peak. A day in wait where doves don't ever fly, they walk. French fiends don't kiss, they talk.
What was my life these last thirty-five years? The answer is missing and it will find me once I cross the other side. I don't think so, I know it. The games we play aren't really imaginary but a sorrowful shame we play in vain. Everyone paints their own picture of the basic happiness, tiny steps one foot after the other until it is oh so simple.
Imagine if you will my chance at glory.
I never understood the chance we take until now. I am not innocent. My death is but a time relapse. A window into the soul; let us release upon this earth a heaping revenge I fail yet seek, a time where madness was at a peak. A day in wait where doves don't ever fly, they walk. French fiends don't kiss, they talk.
What was my life these last thirty-five years? The answer is missing and it will find me once I cross the other side. I don't think so, I know it. The games we play aren't really imaginary but a sorrowful shame we play in vain. Everyone paints their own picture of the basic happiness, tiny steps one foot after the other until it is oh so simple.
Imagine if you will my chance at glory.
