My true feelings are obscured by pure bitter intellection.
My brain is the main heretic of my soul.
My thoughts… I know them well.
To each his own cognomen but yet I am confused.
Auto-Da-Fe…
But that won't work.
When I try to fathom I break.
And when I behold myself I shake.
No matter what I do, I will be held beneath the rest.
Because a sane person would help himself.
What's worse is that I know better but yet…
Perfidy…
I used to trust myself.
That’s why I write.
That’s why I write in a way that leaves all doubt behind.
Because that's how I clear my mind.
My condition hold's a banner that reads "Don’t Stop!"
But my conscience feels the need to make me be a better version of me.
So I will stop. Eventually…
Procrastination turns into never.
I am on my death bed now.
Toroidal chains erupt from thin air around me.
They tighten their grip around me in lento.
I hear a crescendo.
My sense of hearing finally decodes the glass that just fell from my hand.
I don’t see a grim reaper or Baphomet anywhere.
That gives me a little solace…
The end is near and once again, after all this time,
All I can think about is…
"What if?" ...