Playing the cure you held my hands in cold delight
as thoughts of black played from my eyes, Sensation,
rolling off you're skin with steady ecstasy,

Up my arms you swayed like a child with fire,
careful not to rip this ugly flayed, tender body,

Those arms now wrapped around my back, beautiful silk like lips pressed against my sickly face,
a fragile glass skeleton,
Soon to be another notch in my belt of melancholy i imagined,
only in self absorbed regret for masking this lie, taunting you're elegy in every stroke,
****** away my freakish nature, cold, still so cold.

With a midnight veil setting upon us,
it was time to begin our graceful sin,

We danced a dance only the outcast and lonely can
and from beauty to beast you whispered to me, the taboo tango, the taboo tango.

I started out as a normal kid, age seventeen, both good and bad and in between.

My mind was lost in a shadowy haze, thus begun the darkness in my gaze.

The darkness rose up from the ground, like living shadows with forms abound.

The shadows attacked with claws and teeth and hordes of darkness arose from beneath.

They walked through walls and hallowed caves setting the world of darkness ablaze.

My darkest eyes could not see the light, however i pulled forth my sword and chose to fight.

Like a warrior of the light wielded by my blade, but like the darkness i began to fade..

The world i knew cease to exist as objects and buildings began to twist.

The more i fought the harder they came, the more i resisted the more lives they claimed.

As the world began to fade and cease to be, i finally realized that darkness was me...

Like a cancer of the autumn leaves
forming and glistening in there excellence,
from a bright green to a dim but beautiful hazel brown
it strikes him as dull and boring

but of course the beautiful metaphor of the heart has long passed him by with the subtle carnage and terror lying behind his light hazel eyes

he wants it, but is in no reach of it,
he tries.. with all his might to see it, but it is no where to be seen..

as he watches the others laugh, joke and smile about it, it confuses him as he
can only taste the sour metal from the fork..

why? why can't he see or taste it?

he asked the question..
but the answer was obvious...

enough he says, with a 6inch piece of thick rope and the dark gloomy bars of a cellar door.... its over, in quite reply.

the taste, never to be tasted.
and the beauty never to be seen by those light hazel eyes so filled with joy but engulfed in the manifestation of his own dark shadow.

and now for him there are no questions to be asked, no taste to be tasted and no beauty to be glorified.


i thought you should know that all the extravagance of the world only came down to one tear upon this man, a man who lived and died without a life.

Son of Daedalus,
foolish young boy,
flying through the august sunset background
and tasting the damp clouds viewed with splendor,

Son of Daedalus,
arrogant dreamer,
did you smile to the sun,
before your feather bound wings burst into flames,

Son of Daedalus,
poor boy,
did your soul rise from those flames like a phoenix
with your tiny lungs so filled with salty waters,
did you take one last laugh to the end,

Here lies a boy,
the son of Daedalus,
immortal in memory to the Icarian Sea.

Last call friends
Last call friends, he repeated two times strong,
      desperate for an answer or slight recognition from familiar faces,
      white and pale these faces are today, cold like statues lost in a popular fog,
      the table, the only thing to show a hint of care, mimicking his every turn, scream and tear smashing against the unpolished torn wood below his hands,
      a sick repetition falls over him as his rage quickly fades and his voice becomes horse,
      slightly lowering his hands back to the table, closing his eyes embraced by apathy he stands,
      letting his arms fall to his side and with one more glance he confronts those cold statues with a silent whisper,
Last call friends,
Last call friends, he repeated two times soft.

I'm beginning to sit back now, listening to my sorrow felt lit cigarette solace falling through my damp heart where only creaky doorways with blown out windows play natural rhythms that echo in this caged bone graveyard,

and i look up at the plain white ceiling, seeing only transparent stars falling from there colossal watchtower onto my pale face and through my wet hair like salt in a great ocean.

I'm beginning to drink my water now, as i lift the glass from its polished wooden home, a warm sensation flows down the right side of my arm, remembering, pitying, thinking,

and like Beethoven i can think only about the comedy of this great play, able only to softly laugh while tremors shoot through my body like ****** fly's through the veins of the addict.

Ill be lying down now, my gentle carpet covered floor will give birth to an angel forever dormant, trapped, a remnant of my hearts ballad, with its modest melody made of shallow dreams and the confinement of its cruel orchestra.