An Ambiguous Melancholic

The faces we wear,
I am not certain if 
They are real or,
Perhaps imagined,
Of all our fears and doubts,
Molten and cracking at the heat.

When the first layer peeled,
Pain split my body raw,
But soon subsided;
Numb, it was in the shadow,
I almost cried,
Out against the heavens,
In against myself,
A deep, deep abiding hate.

It is in these moments
That I am truly alive,
But to live is to die,
One completes the other, and I,
I am uncertain as to which
The wise men would scoff.

If there is any truth,
North or south, up or down,
My retort shall be the same:
"Why?" the puppet moans,
And on silver strings
I am set adance!
My limbs flail and dangle,
To an unknown, discordant note,
I am not my own,
And I do not see purpose.

There is a flaw in my design,
A glitch, a token of hate,
My Master tells me to die,
But the strings pull and tug
Until I am naught but brittle,
Stale bones of unwholesome flavor;
To perish now is a mercy,
Ill-afforded and unmatched,
Pain... the pain has stung,
Yet now it flares.

The essence of my salvation,
In and of itself condemns me,
Torture, endless darkness not subsiding,
Do you hear me?
Is my despondent whisper silent?
Tell me the truth, I beg,
For the lies and the hurts,
My... fragile body implodes...
Each... and every... time.

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