so expectant of the illusion I am that I mourn its absense. I cling to it as the final chord of symphony or some childs mimicry of a musician and yet no sound is heard by the human ear. So many times I have come to this desolate place and want to withdraw myself from all the world. Why do we loose ourselves to these moments and why does my mind fill me with such doubt? Questions have answers but I remain with riddles upon my nerves; an unsettled spirit lingering between worlds and hoping, always hopeful and yet so damned beneath the surface a borne contempt for all mankind lingers, festering and always seeking an outlet.

My harmony is betrayed by stupidity for I play the puppets part and walk into natural blunders and forget mine enemies linger everywhere. Paranoid one would say lest truth remain and if truth remain does this make my actions worthy, for what has worth in this struggle? Long after death I will be no more than a rememberence for the living, those that shared a few pleasurable moments will dance me upon their thoughts as some flicker of candle light but even such is lost when the wax of time courses downward, spiraling and what will they say for a tombstone and a date, for those rail men buried under the pike, these are sad times perhaps, or perhaps it was inevitable, or perhaps he is at peace.

If I could leer from my grave I would, or perhaps give a crooked eye, I am in a dark place and I want to be here, I want to be darker, I need to remember this, I need to hold on to this, I mustnt let the sand fly off into the oceans sun, but how?