Since the making of time
since the blowing of winds
the one thing that lurks the mind
what is it that makes it sane
the doubts the fears and the pushing rage are
all the peaces of a rotten clock
the mundane and the specific are
just the ingredients of the
retreat you call home
a place in the chest or the head
doesn't matter
a place safe but who can tell
what if you are not to be in there
but some where else
is there a home
a bliss of the unknown
the rigid morph is now a year old
it rots and it smells but it will not
be taken away for its decay
is the proof of once a man
who lived inside it
and now he is but a vision
a behavior guided channel for the
zombies to guide them to his last resting place
he is but non so sad in fun he is but past the ugly tests of truth and dare
a long lost vehicle in the depth of the lake
a silent ****** and a blissful bate
a sickening tone to the whole drama and yet no escape
a shadow lurks and ***** the life
the nurtured one is now lost
he is but a remain of the  what there might be when the winds and the
moist and the ants and the algae have done their part in the add ons
a sure signs of age
you age not my friend
you just get experienced at the injustice of the love
you wishfully hold in the heart the
guard are foever down when you had them forever up
no body sleeps in side no more
no saint no monster no eagle no panther
instead a ruin of the premature
larva from the cocoon
neither fly nor wound but lay smitten by the
master disguised enemy the worst of them all
vanity
the alchemy of ****** is simple
you poison them little by little
and it becomes a daily ritual
you die inside and long for more
that is the beauty of the heart
for all that is
is all that now will bite
a path of the path
the rage of the rage
sing with me my dear friend
a paradise lost is better than the thousand
in place..