When you press upon a matter so hard in your mind that this matter -the problem is all you can think about. Trust me pal, you are no where near solving your problem. It becomes an obsession. Your maddness. Your own jail. Your own personal hell.
Fire burns you out. It tears your flesh bit by bit. The cheering voices of the Demons craving for a little more sorrow, a little more pain on your part. And you accede, you fulfil their cravings. But, you have no choice. You almost never have. Its your jail. Demons are the love of your life. You cannot say no to a wish of theirs. Demons can kill you but you dont care.
You burn, You pine, You perish.
Time is running and the sand is drained drop by drop, grain by grain. The weight is lowering down in to the bowl. Then the bow would fire. An arrow through your heart. No remorse. No looking back.
In that dark hour, you look for a savior but all you see is the red horrifying masks of the people with pinched eyes. Its a Chinese art. You are the new masterpiece. An art bound by the dropping grains. An art held in the hollow of time. You are immortal. Thanks to your Demons. Your cries will echo forever in this dimension. The pleas of your dark hours resounding but still unheard, still unheeded.
And without a notice you pass, unscathed, unblemished, on.
Battles, you leave behind, unfinished, unlost still linger on. Hang in time to be passed on to a new warrior. A scape goat. A sacrificial rite is all the Demons crave.
Your blood is their salvation.
Your shrieks their music.
They let you live, just so you can die for them, at the right time, with the perfect hurt to make you immortal.
Its a dark world. But not all of us see it that way. We are blind. Until our time is up and we are led, slowly, to the chair with an arrow now pointing at you.
Fire burns you out. It tears your flesh bit by bit. The cheering voices of the Demons craving for a little more sorrow, a little more pain on your part. And you accede, you fulfil their cravings. But, you have no choice. You almost never have. Its your jail. Demons are the love of your life. You cannot say no to a wish of theirs. Demons can kill you but you dont care.
You burn, You pine, You perish.
Time is running and the sand is drained drop by drop, grain by grain. The weight is lowering down in to the bowl. Then the bow would fire. An arrow through your heart. No remorse. No looking back.
In that dark hour, you look for a savior but all you see is the red horrifying masks of the people with pinched eyes. Its a Chinese art. You are the new masterpiece. An art bound by the dropping grains. An art held in the hollow of time. You are immortal. Thanks to your Demons. Your cries will echo forever in this dimension. The pleas of your dark hours resounding but still unheard, still unheeded.
And without a notice you pass, unscathed, unblemished, on.
Battles, you leave behind, unfinished, unlost still linger on. Hang in time to be passed on to a new warrior. A scape goat. A sacrificial rite is all the Demons crave.
Your blood is their salvation.
Your shrieks their music.
They let you live, just so you can die for them, at the right time, with the perfect hurt to make you immortal.
Its a dark world. But not all of us see it that way. We are blind. Until our time is up and we are led, slowly, to the chair with an arrow now pointing at you.
"They let you live, just so you can die for them, at the right time, with the perfect hurt to make you immortal."
ReplyDeleteAssertive point of view about inevitable sequence of realities. Nevertheless, speaks of your multidimensional approach towards the "dark world" as you put it :)
Thanks to my Demons.
This is so weird that you actually understood it. honestly, you are one of the three people who did. :)
DeleteHonoured :)
DeleteThey let you live, just so you can die for them, at the right time, with the perfect hurt to make you immortal."
ReplyDeleteAssertive point of view about inevitable sequence of realities. Nevertheless, speaks of your multidimensional approach towards the "dark world" as you put it :)
Thanks to my Demons.