I cast my words away like children cast stones over dark waters on a summer's sunset soon faded.
Torn between a direction none with many promises of hope but surely chaos in hand with devil's grip.
One is never good enough and twelve is but a taste of a speeding train soon to derail.

My message is a as murky as the  air that swirls in his barroom of empty ness I call my existence.
Tortured genius and drunken buffoon often share drinks of a sandy nature in an oasis of torment.
Beaten in thought and charred in reason I'm seldom at home in this crowd.

Stones that skip often no matter the distance sink into the dark waters
of empty ness.

We are moments shared in logic of other's shattered in fragments.
No attempt seems to clam my efforts only drown my hope.
It's written upon the page will you ask or simply ignore ramblings in
a staged tragedy. I seldom seem real.

Stones were once part of boulders aborted by mountains.
So after the fall what is left but fragments?
Maybe I'll pull it together if only for a moment.

I'm slipping in sanity and drowning in the depth of a hollow existence mocked by my own words
like a prisoner left too long within the hole.
I shout only for my voice's comfort.

To long I've rambled I've begun to sink.
A sunset's embrace is but a epitaph of envy in a gravediggers diary and I am but a blank page.