He smiled
Nodding towards eternity, for he knew
The moon and its acolytes are casting their judgement
It was a fine night for his torment.

It is an illusion that we hold
that our will can trump our environment

Even the deepest of stares
Are mostly earnest and placid
Never deem a man rude
From an innocent habit
Perhaps within you
They saw something they once cherished
You see staring is rude
But it’s also ancient tradition
For those who have lost a beloved.

I might be foolish, inane, when I said I was born to be brave,
I might be witless and strange, slowly forging my cave,
Self distractive and lethal in every way I behave,
I could be tainted and ****** by every smile that I gave.
Might be a slave to my craves, eternally dancing this wave,
Might be a vicious hypocrite in every inch of my claims,
I might be drowning in shame and guilt I’m failing to tame,
Despising what I became hence I’m loathing my name,
But there’s awakening hidden when you just take all the blame,
Like a messiah who’s risen, purely cleansed by the flame,
I’m more in touch and humane when only instincts remain,  
Today I’m squealing in vain but I’m most enlightened in pain,
Hear me now and heed me well, I’ll dance on top of your grave,
If you doubt me for just a second while I’m falling from grace,
Watch me destroy my diffidence and watch me make it my slave,
I’m more enthralled in disgrace and more enchanted displaced,
I’m more enlightened in pain.

Let me tell you once more about the first 24,
The lackadaisical blossom of a devilish spore,
The immemorial black of hearts lacklustre and cold,
The sensual grimace of an ordinary soul,
The last ember of coal within a beauty unknown,
The voluptuous shape of effeminate stone,
The incantation of the sun giving birth to the dawn,
An insomniac’s battle against the army of the morn,  
The poetic holocaust of a mind tortured and torn,
The endogenous torment of thoughts when a man is alone,
The sorrow of kings after ascending the throne,
The desolation of spirits failing to protect their own,
The pessimism of those afraid of leaving their zone,
The transparent mist in the eyes of those who intellectually mourn,
A simple metaphor for you to interpret and me to know,
All that and more, simply the first 24.

Its the deepest secret i hold, it is the key to my soul,
It is my rise and my fall, the darkest story ever told,
Add a beautiful 3 and my spirit is whole.
A divine metaphor.
Under a tree of sycamore,
A new story began called the first 24.

The accumulation of all the hate that we love to condone,
But also the strength we unearth when scares galore,
The falsely euphoric solitude of those who do not implore,
A dementia that is cause by the degradation of truth,
The delusion of humans, trying to hold on to their youth,
The illusion of art when sanity is loose,
The ambitions of an addicts fighting, escaping abuse,
It’s the elixir of life for those who denied unethical truce,
Its the umbilical cord by which mental growth is produced,
It’s the force within those who fight without an excuse,  
Its fluorescence of essence, its the efflorescence of spruce,
The greed of adolescence, asphyxiating your roots.