There is s boy.
Always reaching.
For what is just out of reach.
The boy knows he will grow.
Even after the disappointment of not being enough.
Does he cling to the wall.
Patient.
Eyes fixed.
The cadaver bellow.
Grows as well.
Some days it feels as if it will grow limbs.
Just to rip him from crossing the finish line.
Each day is a sacrifice.
A communion with death.
For losing a piece of oneself.
Is a small price.
To be able to...
Live.
Love a day longer.
Only too many days have inched by.
Too many scars have been accumulated to be seen any other way.
All the pain.
Is met with disgust.
No one would dare lock eyes with such a grotesque.
Being..
The cries of agony and sorrow.
Are heard only as rage and hate.
Sadly.
Should the next ledge come into reach.
It is unknown.

Change has a strange way of happening all at.
Once.
There was a tale that believed to be never ending.
Built on pillars that boasted victory from the sands of time.
Only the stormss onslaught continued.
battering any life daring enough to venture out.
An incessant cycle of death.
One that only grew more ravenous with every meal.
Only to discover that the beast turned machine some time ago.
Just as the landscape did.
Leaving the inside as vacant as yesterday's tears.
And so the tale concluded.
Not with bang.
Or A crash.  
But a whisper.
No grand exit.
And no goodbye.
For its only a chapter in this ever growing novel of disappointment.
And with welcoming arms does the darkness insist.
The right choice was always so obvious.
And now perspective is all that's left.
So one must ask.
Has hells chains ever been removed.
Or has the minds eye been shut all this time..

At what point does sadness step into depression.
Memories fade to entertaining images.
Yet havent brought a smile for some time now.
The faces that brightened up the days.
Have moved on.
Leaving small keepsakes behind.
But one dares not touch them.
In fear that they too will evaporate.
Erasing their existence all together.
Even now.
Some erode with just the mere thought.
Of what was once held so dear.
What is to become of it all.
Everyday that inches by.
Does an inevitable page tear itself away.
And submission.
Has only brought cold fingers to numb it all.
This transmutation has coiled silently around its unaware prey.
Once was their comfort found in its constricting grasp.
Even now..
Does it not seem the way it is.
For with every precious moment devoured.
Is there one less to look back on.
In melancholy.

Just how long must one decay.
Before enlightment knocks.
There must be a more sensible way.
Than merely staring at a sign.
"Under Construction".
Filling up the time with duplicates.
Hanging them to corresponding sites.
One for growing up.
A few for responsibilties.
Or just one to cover life In general.
Would it seem too ironic not to even finish the sign..
Or maybe just pesimism.
There are just too many negative adjectives to choose from.
With hands stained red from paint and blood.
One would be hard pressed to touch anything more.
Perhaps this is epifany in the making.
But to reach out to turn the pages
Means the story has yet to conclude.
So does remaining immobile.
Strip away existence.
Or just stall the darkness a bit more..
Either way.
The protagonist still draws breathe.
It is just a matter of how many more pages.
Until the last is drawn.

Always.
Forever.
Incessant.
Words that are taught to never use.
Its never ending.
Seaminglyendlesscircles.
Dark and heavy.
Weighing down logic.
For what is seen.
Is not what is heard.
One must count.
Down.
Raging cryptic cycles.
Even if they aren't uniform.
Any rant will do.
Copy.
Paste.
Repeat.
Regurgitate.
Maybe then.
A meaning can be uncovered.
But for now.
Repitition.
Seems to be the only course allotted.

Why does one feel the need to taunt fire.
Dangle just above.
Inticing pain.
Disregarding consequence
As if bathing in such might just scorch away the sins still felt.
From the last searing moments.
Is it hope.
This irrational graspless object.
That most won't leave the house without it.
Tomorrow..
Must be the time in which truth is found.
Even if questioning existence to faceless figments is the requirement.
Over and over does the rabit hole disintegrate the mind.
Until.
The next choice is presented.

We all have those that ground us.
Make us tangible.
There to remind that the blood that sometimes.
Spills.
Is infinitely finite.
And when they fall away.
Leaving you.
Floating.
Anchorless.
Inches from the ground.
But having neglected certain skills for so long.
Finding meaning to make landfall.
Is not a destination at all.
Nor searching for things that fiegn permanence.
The air has become frigid over the years.
One must adjust.
Or lose more than imagination.
Ever dared.