Where did simplicity fall away.
With so many cogs in motion.
One can easily overlook and forget.
To the point that rust has set in.
Made immobile by negligence.
Only when the pieces begin to crumble.
Is notice taken.
It always feels as if this clockwork maze.
Never shifts in the favor desired.
Creating more and more pathways.
Only to congest it further.
The air is thick with dissspointment.
And each action seems to disrupt the inner workings more each time.
With little else to do.
And tools in disrepair.
One continues forth.
Regardless of how dark it gets.

It's all relative.
A reoccurring measure.
The same hellos and goodbyes.
A rose.
Red now only through the daggers they wield.
A pedal for each their own.
And as they fall away.
Saturated.
Lifelessly performing.
Arrogantly consuming beyond its means.
Just to resemble what will always be remnant.
For that's all there is left.
A perfected parody to a lesson lost among these..
Adamant followers.
Distraction leads to complacancy.
Which inevitably resorts to a persona of pain.
Wander lust envokes the soul.
Calamity is assured.
Waste not the effort to react.
For there will be no natural to this disaster.
Only a faint whisper.
Beyond that.
I will not say.

Tragedy is spectator sport.
No extra fee is needed.
The equipment never changes.
And there always seems to be matches to linger around.
Screams and taunts can be heard from the sidelines.
Almost always is the advice.
Wrong.
Yet no move is made to rid them.
Blood stains the bout in rhythmic circles.
Etched in over time.
For the paces rarely alter.
Blows are exchanged recklessly.
And the crowds lust for suffering elevates.
Slowly as the two cease in a stalemate of self loathing.
The mob moves on to the next victims to sate the everlasting hunger.
A hopeless unanimous decions.
Humanity.
Zero.

Life is overpopulated with actions.
Misconceptions.
Misunderstandings.
And then miss the real point all together.
Always stepping over each others sentences.
To claim right to a land.
That no one wanted in the first place.
Distasteful means.
To a bittersweet ending.
The victor go the spoils.
Only it is life that spoils.
For if there can only be one to stand at the top.
Then at what point.
Did aiming for such heights.
Define such arbitrary scenery.
How strange to ponder.
Just when exactly did the surroundings grow so.
Desolate.
For there is only blackness below now.
A steep ascention to this final decision.
Has left only sanity to fall.
But One can stall no further.
As the distance has come forth.
And plummet I shall.
Whichever way it may be.

The past is such an interesting notion.
Events and moments transpire.
Then seemingly.
Vanish.
Yet we collect them.
Hold them close.
Or far.
Attaching some form of meaning to them.
These memoirs can guide.
Inhibit.
Transfix.
Suffocate.
And any number of other descriptions to wield.
In many ways.
The time after.
Are just duplicates of the latter.
With placed meaning that's "different".
Archived seperately.
So much irrelevant information.
What can our history books truly retain when perspective is so...
Objective.
We are a society hell bent on understanding what was.
Constantly walking past what is.
And lamenting what will be.
Making it truly a wonder.
That any of us.
Are present.
At all.

Just how many times.
Can one seize those moments.
The kind that shine in the darkest depths of depression.
A peridot of true resilience.
Stricken with the pressures of earths resistance.
Swallowed and spat out.
And yet.
The brilliant contours never faded.
A gem that seems to compliment any disenchanted form.
Priceless is a meaning longing to be with its presence.
Regards shan't be wasted.
For the world may wether this artifact.
But for one to be blessed with the cleansing light it holds.
Shall be reforged.
Stripped of gashes and ware.
Into a relic of wondrous.
Ponderous power.
Calamity may call.
Cities may even fall.
Cadaverous holes and all.
But.
Every desert hides an oasis.
Forever waiting.
For that one to traverse all the adverse.
And drink in.
All it has to offer.

The winged beast circle about.
More for presence.  
For pity.
There is no sport in prey that serves itself.
Yet draw blood regardless.
Taking small morsels of flesh with every pass.
And still no restistance.
As if dying slowly was a feat to cherish.
But isn't resilience a defining trait.
The Heros of every story.
Willingly go in search of new ways to destroy the body and mind.
Their deaths are held sacred.
Glory bestowed upon any who would courageously reduce to ash.
From the hellfires surging within a dragons innards.
At what point.
Does suicide.
Become heroism.
The tools are the same.
Fear.
Blades.
Resounding mental capacity.  
Resolve even.
the words and actions may differ every now and then.
But one fact remains.
Blood is blood.
One persons valiant deed.
May just as well be anothers.
Horror.