I am of different mind.
Strong convictions about
The guilty, the right and the wrong.

And with the Devil on my back,
I scream this strange song.

Sins of the father, falter farther.
His downfall will be my ascension.

Through the manacles of manipulation,
He offers cries of peace, of mending.

A piece of a puzzle, which drew me life,
But the business ends there,
I'll not be intertwined in such affairs.

I'll ******* the old man, in mind and spirit.
The blinding goal of this obsession,
But these fruits of labor utter no confession.

And true, such an unwavering soul,
Is dark, toxic and hell.
Though, with black magic, it is for me to sell.

So it happens, that the devil is me,
Then I'll sit with that in evil glee.

Good, bad, or ugly.
I am left only with myself.

Writers are quite dangerous.
She came to the bar, to watch,
And listen, to hear stories.

Carefully, I tread. For fear,
That my own diction, would become
Trapped in her world of fiction.

Though, of course we swapped pieces.
And still, only selected to paint,
A vision of my own creation.

Small freedoms, but they matter most.
As I'm a prisoner to demon's I host.
Be wary poets, of power most foul.

Ensnaring half spectres of being,
In a prose, a thought or a feeling.
Reality is as real as you write it.

Symptomatic time bomb.
Deluded delusions of ethereal projections,
A dissociated self of severe sorrow.
Louder now, the crooning calls,
The malevolent mayhem of voices.
Sleepless nights, onset insomnia.
A refuge from reality is lacking.
Dreams sent packing.
Nightmares walk.
People talk.
And time offers no relief.
Crawling inside, fear growing.
Fiendish thoughts, lethal insanity.
Scribe away, transference of pain.
Words trapped between pages,
A book of demons, all of them screaming.
Bound by a spine of mental failing.
Fold the latch, turn the key.
Bury this *******'s tale.
Rinse and repeat,
With each rising defeat.
And pray the delay of further tells,
These fortunes of the lost amd the broken.

I fell hard for a stranger,
Her words, the pauses between them,
The boldness in which she spoke,
And of course the confidence in her approach.

But, woe is me, captivated fool.
Palavar was a sweet heat exchange.
Fast passion in shared interest.
The flurry of tongues refreshed,
Impressed by the company of another.

I left with only a name,
No good at this game,
Of courtship.

Knowledge of Self, merely an assumption?
Better, or so I thought,
Failing hard, falling harder.

I burned brightly, burning through bridges,
Boundaries, and borders.

The path I walked was ashen,
In the wake of cinder,
The relics of the past.

Change, hubris aside, was shallow,
Was not the core of Flesh,
Just the Husk of Solitude.

I fell to the Rage, that desperate rage.
So eager and volatile.
Hidden in the shadows, in plain sight,
For the time I'd both welcomed and feared.
That explosion of otherness,
A disillusioned self.

Trauma lingers in a double edged blade,
Wounding the wielder and the wounded.
Neither in blood, thankfully so,
But battered pride, twist the ego.

Piercing Eyes of Goldenrod.
Both bold and brilliant.
The calming center in a hurrricane
Of blue and white feathers.
A gaze which levels any ego,
That should find itself too
Important, in either size or space.
(Do you believe in omens?)
Rebirth is on the horizon,
Or so the star seekers say.
Change, the end of old ways, days.
(But I'd not think it)
The Universe likes to share whispers,
Of things to come or happenings of maybe.
There is no intent ill or otherwise,
Just the honest grievances of time.
As this God of Death, sits high upon
Stilts which bathe in still waters,
I see horror. I see despair. I see death.
That vision, those eyes, golden and
Sinister, but humble all the same.
While the winds sing of new life,
I hear the sorrowful hymns of death.
(Balance.)
There are many ways of knowing.
Magic both black and white.
Magic old as time, as new as a moment.
And if I should see the dark days ahead,
Count that a blessing, to see anything at all.

I've written this story,
Thousands of times in my head.

But when it comes to pen and paper,
I run out of things to be said.

The bard, the mire, the sleuth
His lute, his fear, his truth.

Traveller through time,
His words chill the spine.

Oh, weaver of tales,
Hunter of lies.

Falter not to failure,
Or meet demise.

Songs will save thee,
Open all eyes to see.

Though the devil is in the details,
His chord, echoes on all that fails.