A man once lived in a head full of spite.
The others silenced him against his plight.
Trapped in his head, he scrawled words in lines.
Not comprehensive to those who did not see,
His scrupulous demeanor of requiescent agony.
Though he fought to break those bonds,
He could not take all that  was gone.
And in pure rage he beat on the cage.
With ****** hands that wrote the page.
Now he sits discouraged and submissive.
Unknowing of the flowing pensive,
of happiness so forbidden to him.
He could not blame others.
After all, the cage was his design.
They only gave him the materials, not his perturbed mind.
Only he is to blame for his inequities.
This silent and sorrowful entity.

Once upon a time in a land so full of gray
there lived a man in a house so far out the way.
The man was happy with every living moment.
His wife was pretty and had no coin spent.
There was always food on the table and a fire in the stove.
The house was plenty warm, just like a singing clove.

Then one fateful day, to the man’s surmise.
He saw his wife lying dead with his own two eyes.
And how this tale can get so tragic.
The fire that caught his house seemed like magic.
It all fell apart, you see, in a matter of seconds.
And all the man could do was pray and beckon.

But the divine had forsaken him as they were gray as well.
He could not have any color, and must surely be felled.
And so they broke him on a whim.
That is the story of the Gray Man Hymn.

I don’t know which was worse to lay eyes upon; the twisted and crumbling buildings dressed in a facade of unimaginable degree of bland colors that seemed to pummel your mind with monotony so grand that sanity would crack within the slightest amount of time, or the vile sky with crimson spiraling abhorrence, undulating a sort of miasma toxic to those who breathe for life not knowing of death. All I could see was the disturbing collage given to us.  But I digress. I was journeying since the day I was conceived by the unlikelihood of two lovers, who under some rather unfortunate understandings, ended up disposing of the other’s emotions as a burden needing to be extinguished under the natural law of self preservation. Quite tragic, I know, but that’s the life of one who has been forsaken by the very constructs that placed himself in this rather hysterical world.
I must confess of a rather odd truth I have come to terms with, I am desolate and am alone regardless. The acceptance of this truth has made me feel more at ease within this caustic, corporeal body that has been tethered to my deteriorating mind.
On my journey, I have stumbled across many people; a plethora of beliefs all explaining how this meager existence had come to fruition. I have met liars, cheaters, gamblers, and prostitutes, greed-mongers, the pious, and thieves. But I could not see them, for my eyes are so numbed to the inequities of human beings. All living in order to not die, while accelerating their rather droll end. But I have felt emotions once, and it began to bloom as though it a young orchid yielding the first of its beautiful life span. The culprit to this rather unpleasant beauty was a woman of the age twenty-three, I believe. She was in total contrast, or as I could fathom. Her heart, I could see it; of blinding white, a light that could reflect the desires of others as though a mirror to show the faces of those victims who were foolish enough to gaze upon the fortitude. And what I saw was the blackened carapace, which housed an empty cavity into which I had no heart. That was the first time I, in fact, felt desolate. The feeling she imprinted on me was so sour and harsher than the torment my life placed upon me. She was my burden. And I loved her for it. She followed me on my journey, a constant reminder of how disgusting emotions can truly be. Every night and morning, I looked into her to find myself. The void within my body began to fill, gradually filling the cracks left by my toils. She was my salvation, she was the reason I lived. I finally had a love for someone.
My journey was almost to an end and I had gained what I never had. That was emotions which alleviated my life long ailment. I had filled the hole that tunneled its way through me as though a mole tunneling for shelter. I was one step from my final destination, at last I could feel the emotion of true “happiness”. I started to take that final step, and as I did I made a mistake on such horrifying levels of trepidation. I turned my head to gaze at her again, one last time before my imminent departure. She was nowhere to be seen. She had been lost along the journey and I had no recollection of ever losing my love.
I am desolate, I......Alone.

****, I was killed again.
It hurt so much.
But I won't be the one begging.
Now I must bury myself
Back into that sky.
Call me monster,
Call me what you will.
All I know is I won't die still.
I've been hung thirty times.
I've been a victim of horrid war crimes.
Lived enough to fill 500 lives.
Death doesn't touch me.
Like spoiled meat.
This degrading body of mine,
can't rest and won't stay in line.
What did I do to deserve this?
How is this immortality,
When my mind has reached fantastical fatality?

The Reaper danced a most valiant dance,
Around the dead bodies, a most ghoulish stance.
All dripping from head to toe,
The bodies lay there in the sheet of snow.
There are no survivors, for you could see.
That war is the cruelest reality.
The first few that had been laid to waste,
were given the foulest of life to taste.
Oh, but in this gruesome show of fate,
The Reaper had a magnificent date.
He and War get along so often,
that even she helps him nail the coffins.
And as they dance together as one,
Across the battle field nobody has won.
They collect the lives of many in vain.
In this waltz of terror the two conceive of Pain.
And yet another child and his mother starve again.