Face it, we live short lives, don't wast it.
Encourage one another, and smile.
Bake a pie for a neighbor, and taste it.
Goodness becomes a habit after a while.
Changing thought patterns to better yourself
is a great practice
With goodness you can love and live with style.
Every man chooses how he marches in the parade of life
Practice goodness and I doubt you'll have much strife.

I turn slowly, shoulders wracked with the age of those thousand lifetimes;
aching with stagnation, burnt with indignation, swallowed in ghosts and grime; that lovely chime,
but in that time: what do I see behind me?
My eyes slowly focus, adjusting to the dark, to the shadow trail in my wake.
Burning pitch and sulfur; I wrinkle my nose; charred flesh and breaking bones.
The skeletons from the closet, catching up with me, ambling on their puppet strings,
singing those terrible songs they sing; the screeching of a broken violin upon their tongues.
That terrible rhythm
of an undying footstep; the way the hips rotate and the arch of the foot as it wears down to bone dust.
I see the eyes of the ones that once lived; in this fantasy castle in the airwaves with me, all regal indigo royalty.
I see the heart-wrenching blue, the bedroom eyes, the reflection of you.
But I am alive to destroy your shadow, as it wrenches itself, gasping breath in, rattling moan out; across the floor, dying for more; for a taste of what you once had when we were living.
I see the docile hazel, hands outstretched in a gesture of love; but those fingers, rot and broken, they long to touch; and I burn, burn, burn the shadows away.
Across my shoulders the ink holds true, and I'll never discard the pictures of you; all they were, before this doomsday parade. Of all our hands held and the smiles we stretched beyond those hollow cheekbones.
I see the rich sapphire and its pseudo wisdom; of new ages and spirit bonds. Reaching out to grip my soul, a fierce and fine swerving; of tight and loosened bolts.
And again, the soulless ice; the pressure on the sternum.
Flash; I swing the rusted axe, I pull the silk trigger; sweet charcoal grip against my fingertips.
The fog on the windows, the notes hung on the filthy, deep air.
Flash; I pull back the taut string; whoosh the arrow flings, the stone tip sings.
And again they groan and grumble; moan and froth and fling their bodies forward,
and I turn once more, facing the speeding stonework floor as it passes,
my footsteps crash in the straining silence; face forward:
What do I see behind me?
I will never look again.

Noiselessly, the world has begun to defect.
From it chaos flows like blood trailing an abcess,
the poison itself long since passed.
Ash and flowering flame.
The sinking of an eyelid like a blue vault sleeplesness
sits with folded arms.
Peeling words from the walls,
This obsession runs deep untill the desire itself is broken and wasted.
The sistine eye , the twisting thigh.
If dead skin says nothing, than it cannot lie...

Laying awake, a wake, my wake. Won't let them take,
something I could never fake. A pretty melody I wouldn't
try to make. Every time I'm falling down, I fall to pieces, and
break.