I've seen what horror can befall a man.
I stand atop this cliff, outward I gaze
and begin to recall how it began
as memory obscures my mind in haze.

I remember how, smiling, bright with joy,
you came to me with hope one fateful night.
You spoke a promise, one that would destroy
my fears and banish darkness from my sight.

A promise that, in hindsight, ****** my soul
for nothing holy comes without a price.
You gave of yourself, saved me, made me whole,
and now, without you, my heart fills with ice.

I've seen what horror can befall a man,
though, more important, is that here I stand.

Hope's loss I can't abide.
Keep it burning, ever bright.
Freedom claimed by suicide.

Even as darkness sweetly sighed
a lie of never ending plight.
Hope's loss I can't abide.

Though stripped of all but pride
surrender simply brings the night.
Freedom claimed by suicide.

For once your tears have dried
your dreams can come to right.
Hope's loss I can't abide.

Once sacrificed, your hands are tied
and none can bring back your light.
Freedom claimed by suicide.

So soldier on, lengthen stride.
Don't end it here, without a fight.
Hope's loss I can't abide.
Freedom claimed by suicide.

Life's not a movie. There's no writer out there making sure that everything works out in the end. No matter how much something makes sense, it still may not happen. Life's not a movie.
But, every once in a while, the entropy that makes up our universe will slacken and the planets will align and for one glorious moment, life won't ****. It will so profoundly not **** that it will make the vast ocean of sewage that seems to make up every day life seem to shine with its very glory, for it's that every day chaos that leads to that moment.
Life's not a movie. It's not a tragedy or a romance or a comedy. Life's not a movie.
It's just life.

Preheat the oven, three hundred fifty.
Half cup butter that's melted, nutty brown.
Unsweetened chocolate added brashly
And allowed time to cool, the brew to crown.

Mix thorough, eggs and cup of sugar, two.
Temper well lest ova scramble, desired.
One cup of warm water to mixtured brew.
A few more steps ere decadence acquired.

Half three teaspoons soda, one quarter salt
Nine quarter cups flour, we now must sift.
A quarter cup of milk which we exalt.
One teaspoon vinegar provides the lift.

Bake half an hour, as scent your nostril fills.
And now we dine upon this food, devil's.

Without end, white extends beyond my sight.
Insidiously, dark begins to creep
and on horizon's edge my eyes alight
as Sol, my friend, doth slip into the deep.

This time no stars will come, no moon will shine,
this frigid night will never end. I know
that nameless horrors on my soul will dine
and leave my rotten corpse within the snow.

But still, onward towards the black I trudge
and forth I stare, though hope has passed from me.
Til death's embrace my will shall never budge,
I seek an end to endless snowy sea.

Undaunted, I'll not yield without a fight.
Without end, black extends beyond my sight.

Within the black, ere sun's first breaking light,
one could conceive not life within the dark.
However, dawn's new brightest beams alight
upon a simple orb beyond remark.

Within this shell, so still and fragile, lives
the hope, the dream, that something might soon be.
And so within the worshipped light it gives
a longing soul extends a silent plea.

A panicked witness stands as cracks begin
and death's miasma creeps out from the crags
now formed from pure and smoothest ivory skin.
The soul, at sight of rotted infant, gags.

From tomb the corpse slips, dripping blood red wine,
for death is god's will, be it so divine.

Constructed under water's highest tide,
encroaching waves breaking upon the land,
its clearly ****** existence must subside.
Is it absurd, this fortress built of sand?

The waters rise, now lapping at its base,
erosion wiping meaning from the beach.
For once a thing is lost, without a trace
is purpose gone? Forever out of reach?

One final wall is swallowed by the sea.
Its image shall soon vanish from the mind.
Yet even as the grains of sand break free
what effort gave, its value, stays behind.

The works of man must always someday fade.
So in the doing, purpose must be made.