Calculated thoughts pour down like rain, Unable to stop the light from breaking through clouds
And poking holes in your disillusionment. It’s annoying,
Like a midge buzzing around in the way you try to define it,
But pensive as you’ve ever been.
I feel no shame in what becomes of—Shallow indifference indulged by your lack of sentiment.
The truth is evidence that you were always this, from conception, a single atom of disruption.

No one could love a black cloud,
Even if you play Pan flutes and gather the innocent around.
You aren’t in Narnia;
When the truth comes swinging round like death’s scythe or scalpel,
it’s time to rid yourself of the cancer you’ve become.
Dead eyes,
Doll-like,
Sad vibes—
caught in your misanthropy.

The light still breaks through,
Love prevails to spite you.
Dead as you are and crippled as you become,
We throw you like bait as a cast-off,
Bit by bit, they circle and consume until the light breaks through.

Should you meet your maker tonight,
Tell him you never deserved your life. Blame it on the ones who never treated you right
And hope that God plays a violin.

As the light breaks through,
It casts congregation upon your disillusioned misanthropy.