It’s nothing to compare, this world and theirs’. The next is grief and combined political failures and valiant peace protestors. If one afternoon can disappear, then one man can despair. I no longer accept that I am or feel human and ‘alive’ contends with reality and that compromises my intentions of dreaming whilst awake and living when we lie truthfully, the naive escape from the neglect we have lived.
They have hoped for, or had desired so that they could be, or talk of how fearful they had been to see a child breath in its mind but not in its lungs and lay motionless while frantic hands burden her silence. This obsession with wanting to witness such anguish became an obscenity I wish to destroy. What if once a year, Grandpa was remembered in correspondence to his dead son’s birthday and when the sun burns her skin to sickness you feel it was your duty to once again show your sorry impatience at his day.

Returning scared and scarred you run, mad and crazy “Because, because when the laughter retreats the menace will march uncontrollably.”- Uncontrollably, sounds like carelessness, sounds like, but it’s not. All it amounts to is the scarcity of direction. Their absence of pupils did indeed illuminate the field in a frightening darkness and as they dilate the earth paused.
Perhaps it occurs to me because there is snow melting above me in April, however the chill of regret..but I regret nothing, I do maintain complications that are matters of anxiety. Preparing myself for the catastrophic awakening. I will appear before Marry, stripped of my dignity and I shall relish in the sweat that drains my limbs of their numbness. As if chaos was an expense she dominates with a left hand of truth, and a right of honesty, controlling with one and expecting with the other. “I deem it not necessary to convoke with her as I am much certain that it could not have any good conclusion.” Disillusioned I am jolted into suspense that good news could be possible. Good...how tedious and bland that word now sounds.

I have restricted my urges to engage. My blood boils to a cool simmer. Tendons twist until it leeks from my arms and my legs. Confusion is what I am thinking now, and thoughts are all that carry the neglect of a youth who’s innocence was stolen the day he dared to love, and risked his life to save himself from the violent emissary the name God. As he dispatched his brigade of thieving scoundrels, that welcoming taste of iron eroded upon his tongue. Chocked on royal blood, he drank and swallowed the poison! Does no fairytale teach what its creator intended to learn? Ah! Never more shall he command with a crescent peak, atop those crimson hills.

A child, left untamed in such domestic squalor. Festering in the basin, frozen so that his lame physique may e preserved. The bronze has tarnished and it would soon become known that the rusted taps are of more worth than that limp construction whom lay mangled in a hollow ice throne. It’s been minuets since he last drew breath. His eyes remained squinted and reflected in his glazed eyes mirror a contraption- the label read “Keep away from small children”

His fragile heart made no known recovery and his potential to save mankind was stricken from the records, and his name etched into stone now smeared with tolerant blood. His paranoia was not in vein. Life did end and tormented birds left the coop before the flood drowned them.

Nightmares induce the most awful fear into all its' inhabitants. They consist of all my personal fears and force me to confront them. Demons must rest upon the souls of all that have been condemned to such unholy a place. Relentless flames rage at the blackened sky beckoning the ashes of the fallen to embrace the blood stained ground. Hideous beings wonder the halls of hollowed out churches and ring the sombre bell to call forth death itself. Morbid images deck the walls as grotesque artists paint graven paintings to reflect the despair and destruction that breaches the anti-religious playground. As the unholy monsters gasp for air and wreak their stench throughout the commemorative scene. A sign reads, “Here lay the heroes of the dead, for they are the only heroes among men”. Departing from their memorial graves, slung muskets across their bones, wailing for the pain from centuries of everlasting war. Each and every dying day they die and die again, reliving past tormenting memories that inflict such anguishing punishment upon their frail bodies. However, despite the darkness there is one area of sanctity. Covered with red roses, swarmed with the most beautiful white doves and blessed with the elegance of pure silver Angles. A magnificent fountain becomes host to the purity of the flowers and bids. The plants emitted a most heavenly scent that calms the fears of the real world. As peasants bathe in the malevolent springs that rush atop the sturdy granite mountains, clusters of golden leaves fall from giant maple trees, towers of oak guardians spread their branches across the courtyard casting their shadows. This is where the demons have domain over this tranquil building and embed their hatred through the roots of the trees, seeping darkness stretching into every crevice the church conceals.

Distant echoes wispering upon suspicious ears, failing their speaker they are pronounced with anquish torn from the scripts of Death's handbook. Notes inscribed, with or without consent of the victims glare, as eyes pierce the truthful indignity that remains his only concern. Now gaze, as they mount high atop steeds of formless haze and rest their sadle on the mist. And it is their ride now, not ours, and their laughs sound the tribe, not his, only they exist now, not eve the God-like survived. Incarnations forbis incarnate of hope and desire onlyto prohibit man to love, and demand him little of no chance to become man, spiteful days torment his words- "only then can a man live to live"