Was this what it was to bound and confined?
The unassailable destiny so bestowed upon thyne?
Infinitely punished from a pocket-sized moment?
The creation, obliteration of that moment was divine.
It had to be done, it had to be mine.
To accept less, would we flashback to old?
Of horses and magic and witches of crime?
Sickening and saddening, lampooning the kind.
Comforting the misanthrope for the moment in time
When everything sparked and electrified.
Magic sweetening the blow of mankind.
In my heart was the blow, emotionally out shined.
Wishing and kissing and burning for mine.
Flashing back to times unravels fondly, too unaligned.
Of horses and magic and witches of crime.
Melancholy and torpor, now good friends of thyne.
But excuses aren't bought, only taken back and cosigned.
Yet, I can’t help but think: do I want to be confined?