Living within the fringe of lunacy, absolute loss,
embracing the frigid realization of happenstance,
guilty emotions clamoring for release,
feed the revolution of the body,
allowing yourself to be incarcerated again.
Wearing an apron upon your shirt sleeve,
escape is a wish upon the death of a star,
the final release from the two parts of yourself,
no longer willing to fight her emergence,
unable to please with your whole, color fades.
Falling into the night, the water washes you clean,
wet alabaster becomes black as pitch,
no longer there, no longer what they thought you would be,
surfacing from the necessity to survive,
allowing yourself to become yourself.
Begging at the fountain of refuge,
only to face the gallows pole held by humanity,
burying yourself without a tear,
the wizard sprinkles your grave with an afterthought,
scented with the perfume of what was your life.
Good fell apart, because after all…
It really does not matter unless it is fun.