My fortune renders me silent.
An expression of the lost
Finds a hole in my chest.
I see the parallels in the death of a star.
Long after the many ruptures,
The stitches are lined with glue ablaze.
I keep the inspirational lyrics of an eternity alive,
While a ship slowly setting sail without me.
In that brick wall,
The classics are the brick giving way.
Their composition is being changed to dust,
Leaving a hole that has no need to be occupied.
Those songs have a visage,
But cracks are shedding darkness.
A paper-thin sheet
Covers dying souls.
Follicles turn to snow
And gravity takes its toll on my innards.
The sensation of a line of true compassion
Feels like a distant memory.
Who am I to connect
With a history that thrived
Without out my presence?
The fact that it still moves me answers it all.
Like a skin cell,
The present music coming and going is only a natural process.
Tissue lives on.
Oh how I miss those days..
The invisible hands work their way around,
While I depressingly wait for
An element I thought would survive.
The lost taste fades from the many.
I can say I understand,
But only for self-assurance.
The art of the inanimate takes confused people to a place
That words of compassion cannot. Ever.
I hear and see two separate worlds.
Words of love give me thoughts
Of heavenly confidence in my realm.
The outside world forgets everything like a squirrel.
I acquire a hollow disposition
Amidst the massive chants.
If all else fails to satisfy,
It puts me in agony to hear the vulgar.
It is true.
I don’t know.
A simple man’s true compassion is no match
For the sensation produced by the splitting cords.
I guess I should lighten up.
Producing the distasteful is no problem
If the world around me wants it.
Oh how I just want to be home.
I cannot stand the sound of abuse,
But they are everywhere.
There is no feeling
Like one of helplessness.
Instead of hours,
It will be minutes I’ll be counting.
Instead of compassionate inspirations,
False and hateful parasites devour the minds of the masses.