Memoir

Deep inside the memoirs of one thought dead,
But of course illusion might be all he hears.
Salty tears, unlike the blood last shed,
Drunken screams at realization of all he fears.

Death grip on that he holds close,
He pretends not to have.
Fascinated with a life seen in broken mirrors,
Spent his death fighting a false reflection.

Lost in God, things he cannot explain,
Lost to all who he once knew.
Monstrosity maybe, this corpse in the rain,
But is judgment on thoughts, or what you do?

Hiding behind empty shell of ice,
But he still caught someone's eye.
The blade struck out to save his life,
When he meant for it to be his end.

Shattered promise, false prophet,
Sincere in every lie he told.
Waiting on his only truth,
Grasping at an idiotic hope.

Strike in defense, struck for love,
A fiend, a friend, a phantom perhaps.
Has it been enough, can he stop himself?
Pattern of mishap;
Destruction of self.
Life.
Of death.

Now that which he held most dear,
Is everything he's come to fear.
Running so far he's looped back,
Defenses so awry he fell to his own attack.
He won't forgive himself for all that they have done,
He won't admit this loss until he thinks he won.
Suffocating,
Holding his breath,
Refusing to admit he is decaying.

Now in this memoir he writes,
All the fictions of his truth.
For the delusions of his prophecy,
Again seem to be his reality.