Afraid of choice my mind trembles uneasily and is devoured by the sustenance of its origin.
Intertwined within 1000 reasons to remain voiceless, carelessness begat by age.
Poli pertains to the nature of their shortcomings, Oli to the behavior of its people,
Demo is the name of those who seek so greatly, even coming together to get ahead,
that they unknowingly become entangled, within a red spiderweb.
They tortured my existence, far before we came to be today.
They sowed poison into my mind before even my thoughts had begun to be spun.
My arrival was none other than a pawn, engraved in a vast chess board,
A game in which before it had begun the opposing side had already won.
It was due to a vastly complex scheme, plotted for a time as long as time itself.
The schematics were modelled to destroy, as was the mind in which it was formed,
This scheme so well constructed, and meant for far less than to be adorned.
Small victories is an oxymoronic term, for in only 2 words it proves void.
Victory is not so definite.
It is not something that simply dies away after it is enjoyed.
It is celebrated, and remembered, for years to come.
It is in these conceits and these amongst many,
That I am sure victory, lays nowhere, unless failure has proved done.
Flustering the crusted wings of a doubtless summer sphere.
Flattery and battery,
Summer breeze and swaying trees in the endless of ease of nightmare’s eve,
Promotes this love of fear.
Myself cannot bring about peace, nor can my thoughts who make attempts.
They can only through words express my momentarily downcast suppressed, and unkempt.
Truly, my time has elapsed, not as long as some, but too long for one,
For the places that the web will weave itself is enough to drive one.
Once your control has been left to the power of the red or the blue
Your life will simply go wherever they want it to.
There is but an idea.
And Idea that maybe one could shape the ill-formed forgotten mess of Blood sucking vermin.
Give form to the formless.
Give lace to the neck.
Silver to the lining, and that lining to clouded reason.
Fill bitter helpless sadness, with the hope that yearning brings,
Turning volcanic pits of sorrows, to contrastingly soothing winter springs.
An idea, not made from recycled parts, comes from an infinite ocean, from which all thoughts sprout.
An idea that even as it's thought seems ever filled with doubt.
If we could have "not"
If we could have not
if we could have NOT
If but only one person could make clear the effects off geld,
if they only understood the barren ocean, that existed in my heart, they'd see far too clearly, and know far too well, the sickening plague of evil evisceration they hath unleashed upon the earth, and the damage they hath dealt.