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To Each His Own
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I Speak the Language of Destruction
I can no longer hear the mourning whispers
Of havoc that I once embraced.
In the shadows of memories
Of what could have been.
The stinging pain of paths not taken is one that I will never forget.
In my treachery I find solace and comfort.
It does not require responsibility
One action for the steps I have elected.
With such vigor and fear I tread deeper into
The nothingness that will surely consume my life.
A poetic irony leads me by the hand.
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In such dime of lights (Relieve you of my sin and dread what's to come of me.)
It is easy to convince myself
That this life was always that, of which I was destined
Brutal, short, and empty
My affliction is, at last glance not the fault
Of tradition, but my own burden.
So with my last goodbye
I ask you not to hate me for what I was, or what I am.
Seek deep in your soul the trust that I will be free.
Forget everything you thought you knew about me. (The last attempt to redeemed myself from break revisions. I see what I must do.)
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