Take my advice, I’m not using it.

I want to undo.
Find my space inside of you.
Filling the empty.

Distant lands call me;
Crying for my return;
Like a prodigal son returning home;
Bringing the glory of a fallen kingdom;

Evil has possessed the hearts of brave men;
And hope is only a dim light in the sky;
Fathers lean over their children's ashes;
And the crows pray before their next meal;

But all this hurts me like thorns;
My home has turned into a mire of hate;
My family is already lost in memories;
And I'm alone with the demons;

My brown cape rocks in the strong wind;
My eye reflects the sight of the troubled flames;
My sword is pointed at the darkness;
Challenging her for a dance between cut and emptiness.

Impervious to the oscillating fans of time
It ran into all man made obstacles
The question burned on the final cross
“Were you the real master all this time?”
Until I staked it with the sword of progress
Soon enough, we turned into rats
A sense of humor was well written
Into the natural order of all things
But I still had to pick off dead skins
From my head onto the winds
Leading me to self-deprecate
I wondered, what was the point?
Grasping at that marage of me
Burning homework in fifth grade
Pillars of bright fuzzy bliss
Surrounded the flames around
I climbed and I climbed up one
Until I reached a pulsating hue
I touched it and the bell rang
I looked down to see superiors
Laughing, for I had to fall down
Then, I felt the rope burn

she dipped the quill
deep in her vein
and on her breast
she wrote
in scarlet
a name
that was her poetry
and her undoing

I hear a melody in my head,
A song, and poem with an end.
The end is near as I command.
Left to be read by the living soon to be undead.
My poem,
Oh my song leads only to rotting flesh.
As my word are venom to your bread.
There no meaning just the ramblings of a mad person.
I am so mad, so tired, I sometimes seek death.
My heart shows no ache to the blind,
My voice shows no fear to the deaf,
My trust shows none to the shallow.
For my words are not a peace offering.
No, just the shovel.

The shovel for your grave.
Though I won’t dig,
But you will.
I did not undue you, but I began your undoing.