If you happen to ask what one half of me thinks of other
I would ponder upon the perplexity,
that to think less of me would mean that I don't think of me at all.

Lonely.
Darker.

Seething.
Blacker.

Slowly seeping,
deeper into the ether,
toward the sleeping creature.

The Keeper of Neither.

I can wash it off but it's all for naught,
It's in my skin now.
Spent too long on the wrong end of upside down.
Never have I ever made
or heard a sadder sound
than when I finally got a grip
just to watch it still slip
and shatter on the ground.

Am I lost or just waiting to be found?

So here I am sitting in my throne of obsidian,
drinking damnation as I dine on oblivion.
Self proclaimed king with a paper mache crown.

Am I lost or just waiting to be found?