Speak Part 2

by J.A. Von Schinzel - Reynolds

Yet the epiphany never lasts...

Discordance bringing clarity, the brilliant ferocity of creativity...

Do you ever truly feel it, the rawness, the soul of you, bleeding.

Drink of thine cup, he said, yet you refuse to, suffering in fast.

Slake your thirst or fall to the wayside, lacking in courage, 

faltering on the path. 

Tendons snapping, transforming...into not what you'd expect,

Just your anger sent back and  received. Lost, malformed,

self-righteousness. Useless and petty examples of Love.

Yet mostly just Anger. A grim exotica to so many, but for you

your common ground for revelry. Go ahead and bask.

Led to the Wolf's foot print to drink...act as if your mouth is

suddenly sewn shut. There are realms where the likes of

you are forgotten forever, where you will be left to never

think...To never walk, to only crawl, razor hooked canines

of darkness to take your Achille's heel so swiftly from you,

Envision this entombed epitaph, see it reflect in my eye, 

where the darkness cuts. Want to know who I really am, 

know me, my sight and how I see you? Just ask. 

You have no true sight of me, for yours are not the eyes

of Gods by any means. You live as you have chosen, 

destitution, prostitution, no emancipation, no declarations

of freedom. No self realization, trivial attempts at self-

actualization. Upon you these things I task.

There is a discipline, a solace of a soul once burnt to ash,

in the righteousness of the Wicked. You sense it. Truthfully,

it bothers you. Yet you have no desire for this. Only what you

have limited yourself to seek, to seek pity, for you are addicted. 

That's simply who you are. Accept it, you lost your mask.

You stink.

Of Fear. 

Of the Light.

And the Dark. 

You think this life is easy, holding hands in the park? 

Are you kidding, are you lying? How dare you.

Sing, little Mockingbird, when Death leaves his card.

You led the Wolf right to your door and for the morrow

of lusting your marrow he's left his mark.

He shall return many times in dreams, of this you

should expect. 

He's confused you with the smell of rotting flesh. 

And he's demanding respect. 


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