Sheep, the lambs to the slaughter of false words,
that were breathed by the misgiving of
                                our forefathers weaknesses..

But what is a word, it is power, and spoken in
repetitive whistles the sheep follow.
                                  stripped of there freedom
for they follow a shepherd of false promises.

Sheep are for meant for
                                   two things
to put the wool over others eyes
and to feed the hunger of another...

We weep as if were angels,
          but we just change our
                          reflections,
to a different shade.
Because angels aren't  real,
               and were only mortal
                 So look away, its not ok..

Glaciers withered within me, evaporating
into clouds of despair. I collect within a dispersal
of all that was cloudless, but now I'm slowly
reseeding within a squall of sorrows,
              withered emotions now on the cusp
of what is darkening the skies of my fortitude.

But they say every cloud has that glimmer of hope,
                        a silver lining of reflection within.
That discoloured allure faded before it began.
And now all that I'm consumed by,
              is shades of ashen contemplations.

Static discharges of emotions collide in
turbulent clashes, as words shatter
pine trees of fortitudes, splintering hearts.
Echoing from within,
                         glancing the air in discord.
Precipitation finally collapsing below.

After every storm there is a moment clarity,
where tears fell and emotions disfigured
                                another's calm ground.
Remember that when the clouds are gone
that the illumination of emotions will
shine though, and once again there is calm.

Within a casket of echoes
does the mirage of
      truth become stained
into a conciseness of delusions.
                 But still they are slaves..

Altercations of past inclinations
that merit, reflection of
                          misguided minds.
But with no morals they digress,
      standing on illusions of nothingness.

Where another doesn't tread,
                      fed to others delusions
of negativities prompting lies upon
lie with no merit only golden goblets
drinking upon the weakness of others.

We are but lines drawn
in symbolic
           echoes..
Our life is but a few lines
         that fill a book of memories
that are still empty.

But echoes call from the pages,
       and we read unto ourselves...

10:00 A.M.
Battery: 100%

12:00 P.M.
Battery: 80%

2:00 P.M.
Battery: 67%

4:00 P.M.
Battery: 45%

6:00 P.M.
Battery: 30%

8:00 P.M.
Battery: 10%

10:00 P.M.
Battery: 0%

10:03 P.M.
Notification: You have one unread message:
from Andrea

"i love you ♥"

10:03 P.M.
...
Battery: 100%

The days repeat,
for a lifetime of groundhog days.
that evade the conciseness.
As if hiding in plain sight
                   yet were echoes of before.

Our lives are woven in to
                     twenty three hours,
fifty nine minutes,
                  sixty seconds of rinse & repeats.

Where caged in our meaningless
             eventuality.
A mind numbed,
    by the sanitation of our existence,
                 a reiteration of life's decay.