the truth is that there is no absolute truth, or so we love to believe. our wretched human hearts thrive on being proven wrong, they even hope for it...the fait glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe things are not as they seem, as everyone else sees them...but different. even more so, we love to find the best parts in someone and hope they truly exist and that is why, even if they do not exist...our motto may very well be: We shall invent! So, invent we do. subsequently, we come up with such distorted notions of those close to us, we come to hold them in such high regard and, most of all, are esteemed to be in the very vicinity of their presence, that one outside might believe we are bloody mad. and so we are. Madmen so enamoured with dreams and hopes and wishes, we curtain our view of the world, we take out our own eyes being firmly convinced that empty sockets and a great heart serve the purpose of sight so much better.
so, we proceed throughout this existence blindfolded, grabbing for walls, creeks and cracks, alongside our opulently adorned ideals in the form of people. along the way we are so thrilled of what we believe we have, that we fail to notice the way we're pushed aside, shoved in a corner, disregarded, ignored, trampeled on by these elemental beauties and we, in our own turn, push aside anyone that might try to remove our blissful blidfold. (I only take pity in the form of ruby-red blood dripping eyes)
after a few such experiences, our sences leave us, our strength leaves us, our own life leaves us, but we rejoyce, for this morphed self is all the better to serve our grand illusions. we are left walking carcasses, with beating hearts and no egos, blind and barely dragging our sorry selves near the masion that now houses our beloved "mirrors" - but not simply mirror people, but mirrors of distorted reality and vision, of broken dreams, mirrors of people that will never exist and whose true reflection we may never gaze upon, since our eyes are no longer in our posession. we sold them for the gilded frame adorning our mirrors.
i posess eyes, but they are locked away in a silver box
i posess a soul, but it's locked away in your mirror
i have a voice, but it will only sing for you
i have these lips, but they exist only for the glassy surface of your mirror
so, i press their transience to the cold-cut glass and leave no marks.
i will leave you now, and take that box to serve as mine eyes
i will need no voice, for i have a quill and ink is never far away
i require no lips, for there is noone they can touch
i required no soul, for i need not anymore illusions
but, i shall first break thy image and thy mirror
never to gaze into one ever again.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment