You asked for the truth,
I offered, yet I am graced with silence.

This isn't a battle, yet somehow I'm losing.
This isn't a war, but I am still defeated.

This wasn't a fight.
T'was a slaughter.

A senseless homicide of a friendship that I don't think I could ever understand.

I will not be the mannequin for you to unload upon your confused attacks,

I do forgive you though.

I bear no grudge,
I hold no anger.

My role in this play is now,
To patiently wait for your truth.
Even if it will never arrive.

To speak of my pains is my release from which.
It is not merely my drudgery within the muds of self-wallowing.
It is an awakening when I read my own words and learn who I am in that moment.
It is a point from which to move on, a stepping stone.

Watch the silent fire,
Watch me scorch my battered heart,
Ashes cannot burn.

Should you kindly tell your tales,
I may blindly slash and flail,

Send the ink to paper and scribe the thoughts in immortal time.

Count the syllables,
One by one,

The eternal tale,
Spoken lines,

Reading our silence,
Word for word.

~Robert van Lingen

When my fires burn invisibly,
Blissfully I stand across the path of my pain,
Aging to wonders I'd never known, but,
I dare.

Broken Light,
  shattered nights,
My blight with which I dance and weave.

To and fro,
   my wonderlust flows.
My fascination with the fight.


The shortest distance between peace and I,

Is through Hell.

~Robert van Lingen