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.

During the core of the night when all despair is in sight,
When desolation of souls sets your sorrow alight,
You feel the trauma of life reach the peaks of it’s hight,
You hug your tears as they fall hoping their warmth would ignite,
Setting your history ablaze, so you’re holding them tight.
Kindling the flames of your spite toward your eminent fight.

I see you cursing the sky begging that fate would re-write,
You’ve embraced your disease, taking vicious delight,
Spilling the blood of your prime, desperate, escaping your fright,
But look you at you now that you’ve lost the limelight,
I hear your pitiful pleas and those cries you recite,
Hoping that one day again, you would dance the twilight.

Get up son of man for your days are finite,
Face the night dignified and bleach the darkness to white,
There is glory yet to be found under the moon’s acolytes,
You are the spear of the desert so don’t tame your appetite,
Remember, your father was fierce and your mother dynamite,
Let your lessons converge until your morals unite,
Bleed for you and your own and stop acting polite,
Hold their hands till the break of the dawn and you will one day again
Dance the twilight.

You are the sward of the dawn never sheathed by disgrace,
You are the crisis of faith within a mournful embrace,
You are the novas of space, stars falling from grace,
You are insomnia’s face, in love with excess,
You lose your strength and suppress and then refuse to confess,
You wear your pain and distress with exquisite success,
Pride is boundless no less and poise you can never assess,
I see you’ve done it before under a gentle caress,
And gave yourself and your own to relinquish her dress,
you saw an angel undress, revealing her mess,
But by the air in your chest and by all you possess,
I will see to your doom before you’re able to dance like a devil on-top of my stress.