The level of betrayal
Hit me on multiple levels
Beyond the shadows,
Was it the Devils kiss
Those moonlit craters,
in the gallows,
That created those layers
In the mountains of the Himalayas,
Will they ever tell us,
The secrets lost within those meadows
Flourishing down at base camp.
Flying those false flags in eminence,
whilst were sentenced in the highlands.

Hidden haters,
Camouflaged in winter colours,
the mesa range
a inhabited massif,
A hint of frostbite,
That in hindsight could cost lives,
of those trapped beneath the icy nights.

The snowfall is just drop of ice,
Stinging the eyes of those blinded
by the shards of glass icicles in the avalanche.
A ridge away from the mountain range safety nets.
Disrespected tor of mother natures indignation.
Only the indigenous survive.

Yet in the flames of exasperation,
In the footsteps of evanesce,
A liquesce renders the snow storm useless,
as the sun melts the inundation of the snow slide.

An aubade ray takes over the landscape,
oxidating snowflakes one by one like a machine guns wake.

The temperate rise coincides with the rise of hope within the atmosphere.
The patterns clear and the same mistakes will be made over and over again
until the atmosphere is damaged so severe;

The sun itself will cry a tear.

And you remind me of every person I know and love.

If you can live long enough,
Life will teach you how to live,
And in the moment we'll grow.

And all I can give
Is nothing more than the truth
As we reap what we sow.

I guess it's true what they say,
You live and learn,

Misguided youth now we wait and burn,

I guess it's true that it's easier to fake than it is to actually do.

The devil disguised in the roots,
I watched him grow inside of you.
Inspite of you, I was inspired by you,

But
I was just passing through,
Transparent apparently on a path led with tangled leaves,
Tread into the ground.

I guess it's true that were bounded by love.
As the seasons changed so did the reasons to fall.

And I fell for you implicitly,
like rain drops from clouds.

Depression Sessions,

Without making light of those trapped in the dark,
that setraline sentimentality exposed modern art.
Theres a cavity in the canvass,
despair and distress,
decayed daily until theres only just the crevasses left.
I digress,
your highness.
High times, crash down finesse.

What did you expect?

Now you're acting as if theres nothing left.
When in three days you’ll make the same mistake again.
Just to take the pain away.
Or so you say.

But you’re not depressed.
Stressed, maybe.
Tired,
jaded maybe,
but the lights not faded you just took the wrong road that day.

Now there’s no way of coming back.
You’re not cool for that, this isn’t a cul-de-sac.
You keep taking me back and I just relapse.
And collapse after the session,
ready for the sentence.

Repentance a breath away.

fortified lies,
forty nights and forty days,
so many ways to hide the devil inside you,
he don’t tempt me,
but he’s got a hold of you,
and i see red,
with everything you say and what you do.
i see you struggling,
just to juggle what is true,
to find the line inside what is real and what is you.
i’ve spent my time,
trying to make your lies to truth,
but i have found that defines me and you stay you.
i’ve seen the light,
and the beacons shine on you,
but you reflect from the lights that guided you.
and now it’s darkness,
but your seeking for your youth,
and as you age, you don’t know just what to do.
and inside, there are pieces of me in you,
but we collide and i can’t pretend it’s true.
i wish i lived, a life as false as you,
but i can’t disguise reality like you do.
and i watch you lose your life until it’s through,
you don’t care, about the legacy abused.
thats ok.
but i just can’t be like you,
so don’t expect me to spend my time with you.
but i miss the things we used to do,
and since you left ,
my dreams will never come as true.

If i'm not a product of my environment,
what defines who I am?
Exactly.
Precisely.
I do not know.

What am I,
without environment?
A matter of circumstance?

Without a ball,
how can I play ball?

Just kicking stones across the landscapes.

Without a concept of the Ocean,
how can I understand the notion?

I only believe in what I see.

I speak English, as my mother tongue -
because I was taught from being born.

If I was born in India, I'd speak Indian,
maybe English too.

Surely this makes me a product of the environment.

How can I know of TV,
but a tribe member knows only of a spear.

What were exposed to is defined by our environment.

Tell me i'm wrong.
Tell me about predestination.
Tell me about the soul if you wish.

I think you missed the point.

If I was born in a cell, I would know only the cell.
I known what I'm shown and that much I can tell,
that i'm surely nothing more than a product of the environment.

Or maybe,
just maybe,
**the environment is a product of me too?

Have a great day - thanks for all your support and poetry this year all the vest.

Nathan x