Falling. Falling.
No wings to glide through the wind currents, no way for salvation. The only truth is death, alas it shall never come when wished up.
Only a madman asks for wings on the bed of death, only sanity is what I'm missing, only life is what I try to forget.
Mistakes made out of pure spite, nothing left to sing about, no lyric to make it all better, and yet the words of a sanity seem comforting in a speech that never ends, it just plays over and over.
All you need is but try it says, again and again, and again. Countless times. Infinity.
No where to run, the voices ringing in my head, like a thousand bells of pure gold, the sound of angels from the deepest darkest corners of hell.
Torment cannot describe the feeling of falling into abyss, like flying one might say, the adrenalin rushing through vanes, turning blue, as blood seeps out of numerous wounds, and the never ending song, pure, incoherent.
Madness.
Under a different light, where no man has walked before, a shadow glides through the narrow paths and roads.
Where it is going? Why? No one knows, No one will.
But insanity is not a thing to understand, for we all are but a part of one big misunderstanding, and where.
And all I ever asked for, was solitude, not gratitude.
I have neither, no comfort, no sun, or moon. Just a constant fatigue.
So keep in mind, nothing you do prevents death, not even a metaphorical one.
בבלוג זה
בכל הבלוגים
