Pretty pots,
Perfectly poised,
Pose pretentiously.
Planning plots,
Previously pulled,
Paradoxically.

Pretty pots,
Put pepper plants,
Purposefully.
Planting pain,
Punishing plan,
Premeditatedly.

Pretty pots,
People's pox,
Planetary perceived.
Plotting plots,
Pretty pots,
Perniciously.

Your demons hide,
Within your sight.
You breath to fight,
And fight to survive.

But Survival lurks,
Within the lurch,
Of a tattered Church.

Where restless souls,
Pray for hope,
To one day reach,
A defeatist goal.

A senseless race,
To beat the pace,
In a desperate game.

To be the first,
At god knows what,
Like mice to cheese,
Without a thought.

You run and run,
In an endless race,
Yet you seem forever,
In a circular maze.

This  life, this work,
Is a deep, dark abyss,
Filled with sorrow and dismay.
But if you're lucky,
Even just a bit,
You'll find a shining ray.

A love, the light,
In darkness will make bright,
And carry you across the shore.
Like Charon ferrying your soul.

So hold her tight,
In the darkest of night,
Pray she'll stay,
And free you from this haze.

With every page turn,
He lay more sure,
That she was indeed,
His favourite parable.

The more he mused,
At her great bind.
The closer he found,
Himself by love's side.

But he did haste,
And seal his fate.
With a book without words,
Like a blind man's tale.

A pretty book,
Judged by its cover.
Left no content,
For him to discover.

Hear that heart,
The dark heart.
The one that beats,
To its own tunes.

Feel that soul,
The cold soul,
The one that hides,
Behind shadows.

Smell that fear,
That rancid fear,
The one that claws,
And never gives.

See that reflection,
The unknown reflection,
The one you refuse to,
acknowledge.

The propensity of life's indigence leaves you to ravish in its small prosperities leading to the question where does it all stop?

Is our entire life a battle between the two with an improbable nay an impossible outcome of one beating the other?

I suppose the best one can do is to cash out when the cards are hot.

But doesn't it all seem so futile, essentially what have we done different from the 7.3 billion other parasites all clawing there way to something unknown? What are we fighting, crying and dying for?

Do we even know? Why do we even bother smiling when we know the next minute we're going to bawl?

Isn't the nefarious elation and depression just an elongated version of a manic depressive. So why is one considered a taboo and a disease while the other called life?

As she walked away, down the street, the sun caught his eyes and for that blinding moment in the yellow haze he knew he was looking at the silhouette of an angel.

He stood there, oblivious to time.
Looking, without really seeing, watching the world pass on by.

What had it been?
A minute?
An hour?
Time was a concept lost to him.
And he preferred it that way.

It was the sweetest form of bitter parting there ever could be.
And that killed him.
There was a paucity of words.
There was no need for any.
For the best conversations are often had without words.

Memories flooded his mind.
He pushed them back.
But she pushed harder.

His walk faltered as he steadied himself.
He needed a cigarette.
He had quit smoking for her.
She hated the smell of smoke.
He smiled as he remembered the face she made when she caught him stealing a drag in the corridor.

He looked up, where had he reached?
He didn't care, he needed to walk.
He couldn't stop.
He had to run away from it all.
But who can run from their own thoughts
The thought of living in a world without her.
The thought of waking up every morning without the smile on his face for the conversations ahead.
The thought of never being with her again.

Haunted is the soul of the man,
Who's tasted love but then has lost.

A thought that beats,
To the rhythm of my feet.
Let her go, let her go, let her go.

A jealous heart,
Trapped in the part,
Let her go, let her go, let her go.

A novice soul,
Found love so cold,
Let her go, let her go, let her go.

So hear me speak,
For truth I preach,
Let her go, let her go, let her go.