Fluid Reason

The only thing worth dying for,
Is the end of life itself.

In eternity doth the mind fall,
Never ending,
Never sleeping,
Existing without reason,
It lives on.

Break your heart and like a brittle bone it will shatter,
Unlike said bone,
Broken red splinters cannot be bandaged, splinted or healed.
One life,
One soul,
One chance.
Choose wisely.

When within starlight the sun is swallowed into dusk,
Hidden memories fire the drain,
No dreams,
No breath,
Just the single sound of fear.
That endless rasp of torn worthless lungs.
Truly the obsidian curtain obscures sanity to such a degree that brings anger to overflow.

No masked addiction,
No illegal drug nor hateful crime has the power of natures slumber.
As the sun dies,
The core layers of ones soul collapse,
And in one breath,
The whole world sighs in the terror of what they find.
In darkness, we find truth.
And it kills us.

We cannot stand to know who we truly are.
Masks and lies are  the last survival mechanism of the human mind,
Without them, we find true meaning in our lives,
And with it, an end to all sanity.
We cannot complain,
We cannot cry ignorance,
And stuck between the truth and our bitter hatreds,
We are crushed.

Envy the broken,
The fallen,
And the damned,
For they know true salvation.
They understand the hate that fills all souls,
The despair and the true understanding in lives,
And through luck have clung to life as a drowning man clings to wood.
Are the splinters worth your life?
They drive inside,
Memories of a time in life when truely you felt afraid,
Never relinquishing their deep hold,
Buried forever.

Without control,
Without that hold on our oh so precious reality,
What do we become?
Like a broken emerald my life spills before me in glimmering fragments,
Sources of wonder,
But cutting to hold,
Each but a tiny portion of the whole,
Its worth diminished.

Its so much easier to break,
To throw life before the winds of care and watch it torn apart in the gale.
And this brings happiness.
No-one will admit this bitter quality,
But who truly finds no happiness in seeing chaos amongst the order in the world.
And so,
Those who do fight,
Who do control,
Working without reason or method to hold everything in their life together by but a thread,
Find no happiness,
Find no pleasure,
Just the sick longing in their heart for that touch of the void.
Ever do they wonder what life could be like without their care,
Their work and pride in a hollow existence of no value.
Help comes in the form of death to all people,
Only those who have done nothing in life find the end of all order appeasing to their inner being.

Broken,
Alone,
And hidden in shadow,
The purified walk.
No more pretensions,
Lies,
And masks to hide away what they truely are.
They have found a hidden reality inside themselves,
And in such count the moments until lifes end.
Each breath,Each step,
Each single beat of their disused hearts seems like an eternity to them,
They fear death, not for what it brings,
But that it will not come soon enough to save them.