I look through a pair of masochistic eyes,
onto the apathy that has become the world.
Just beyond me, I hear the timeless roar of eternity,
threatening to swallow me whole with it's slow, steady progression.
I sigh and gaze into the cosmos,
in search of a greater connection to life.
For a time, I merely stand in silence, my imagination wanders,
overcome by emotions cinched tight,
brought on by the terrible massacre in front of me.
screams discharge like an ebullient liquid,
as two armies meet on the teratoma plane.
As I stare, trying to decipher the mangled braille formations of people below
my companion whispers vile diatribes to the sky.
He is a genius, despite his appearances,
his eyes the colour of freshly dissected pie,
his shriveled, prune-like hands hiding in the shadows,
as he casts a powerful spell over the land.
I feared he would make an ambivalent decision,
but my fear wasn't grounded - he has done well with his inheritance.
He has won the battle for us.
Adding your comment:
"his eyes the color of freshly cooked pie"
Thanks.
