The Brink

I stand upon a shattered scene, the brink of scattered ruin and scathing dreams.

I stand upon a shattered scene, the brink of loss, the brink of rage, the edge of sorrow, the ending of an age.

I stand upon a shattered scene, the brink has came and went, the edge a distant thing. Scattered screams and horrid dreams fill a mind of sorrow, scattered screams and horrid dreams build upon that shattered scene, that once stood upon the brink of life.

It all tips, upended and over, into the dark beyond, into the end of the wretched mirage.

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I stands there next to They while Us and Me go off to play. The Voices shout so loud and say nothing at all while It keeps the Silence at bay.

Standing upon that static shore within that grey cacophony I found my soul split a part and rendered incomplete.

My soul, it floats upon that screaming sea while it whispers little promises to They and Us and all of Me, asking all those pieces to find the person I was meant to be but never was, and never found split apart and torn asunder the pieces shattered on the ground.

Lost in that screaming sea with that static shore with nothing but whispers to listen for.

Life

On the edge of Eden and the depths of Hell we find our lives begin, on the balanced edge of a titled knife we start to make our friends.

We find our love and live our life, only to fall upon that edge, that tilted ledge that tips the game, that cuts it short all the same.

This same edge that glitters and gleams that makes it worth it and gives us a name. We learn ourselves just in time to see that fall begin. It’s so horribly sad but I see the beauty in it all the same.

There is wonder, there is life, and it’s all upon this titled edge of that sharpened knife of life.

Gemstones and Jagged Edges

The world is not but gemstones and jagged edges. My words the cutting tool. I shape those facets to suit my need, my words the sparkling jewel.

I find my way to fit the stone to describe what I’m looking through.

The world is not but gemstones and jagged edges and I’ve gone and touched them all, with naught but blood and words of wonder let me share the way I fall. Fall through beauty, fall through hell, I see the horrors of this beatific jail.

This cage of flesh and blood we call our only home, I’ve seen the lovely terror of finding my darkened soul and flooding it with light.

I drift now out, upon a melancholy sea, the waters clear and oh so deep and with my tools far from me.

This world is not be gemstones and jagged edges, of bitters smiles and happy tears, of cutting wounds and jagged years. It is not but gemstones and jagged edges, and from every scar to every light, I’ll savor this one and final life.

Morning Light

I have found that morning light, that dusty dawn.

I see the morning fog, I see that dawning light peering through.

It doesn’t break that melancholy mist but it pierces it still.

Breaking through that dark and finding it’s way to me.

I knew not how I missed that morning light, until finally dusk gave way to dawn.

My night is over, my sun does rise.

I knew not how I missed that morning light that fills my cup with grace until it found it’s way back to me.

My melancholy persists, but I am shackled to this dust no more. I have found my dawn, my blooming spring.

My darkness has set me free. Still, I carry myself with some sorrow, I keep myself to the mists.

Yet I turn my face to that light, and drink of that cup of grace, and find the beginnings of a smile upon my weary face.

 

Symphony of Self

Maybe the burning in my skull would stop and the words would pause for a time.

The strings that pulls my soul apart would grow lax and then my life would once again be mine.

This stained painted glass of a fragmented self, colored to mix the matching pains. To fit with pieces beside and not a single one the same.

A convoluted cacophony of violence and agony, a chorus of a broken soul, rendered still and un-moving, a symphony of self, a song of me,  these words are what they show, in all my hubris and twisted glory.

Winter Solitude

Little ripples of lost love dance across my surface but solitude keeps the water calm. Like ice upon the winter pond, not a single disturbance to be seen at all.

Yet I tire of this exile, this self imposed prison, but I forgot to forge the key when I made myself this cell.

The lock is one that I cannot open, the door does not exist. I know not how to free myself of this cage in which I persist.