Building wings of wax all because you know not the beauty of your own plumage.

Slick, Drip, damp,drop, moist.
Thunder jealous of your groans
Lightning, of my strikes.

I once heard that art is most beautiful when imitateing life . I never understood this; imitation infers a falsehood, a lack of authenticity. Art can only be what it is, unapologetically,It can’t build a facade.
I ,the one who is deemed alive, lie habitually to those around me and worse my self.
I am a performer playing the part of least resistance and greatness propitiation. Solitarily contemplating a collective I want to both develop beyond the horizon or envelop in the flames of a star.
conundrums are the base of these self destructive edifice. Best escape is outside of self, either on the wall in the air or on a shelf.  

Now who imitates who,
When One feels most real imitating art?

Are you the end, severing my potential?
Are you a end, or are you a beginning a apathetic agent who clears the way for the new?
Am I old, or have I done what destiny prescribed and you are giving me a pen for a blank canvas for my own tales?
Aren’t you the gate keeper, the one who welcomes those to the starless lands?
How can I write anew tale at the end of all tales, do I need to? there is no light to show my glory no light to revel my despair
Ah, you are death.
A poem; a bout, the acceptance of death
We fear you because of your necessity but heed not the toll of neccesity on you.
You are the owls ***** in the night.
The solace at the end of the longest and most periless of trials.
To know about you is to fear you but to know you is to love.
you are my friend and the last I will ever see.
I know you?