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CynicMonk Oct 2014
Waiting and furcating
Me myself,
Erasing every shred of good
That I once had,

Mourning on my ill fate
Mourning over my ill heart,
Crushed from within
Cursed to be like that,

Left out alone
I fight my own,
And there is no one to hear me
To hear my ill heart.

I witnessed earth turning red
Bodies turning cold,
Weapons ******* iron,
Same as the one I hold

I wished to be a Messiah
War was all I created,
I asked Lord
If this is what I was fated,

But it's too late to turn back now
My path has been chosen,
I have to walk alone,
I have to cross this hell,
To make a heaven of my own.
The crow looks like black hanging rag
The trees blurred blotch of green
Trunks furcating like horns of stag
The sky is shorn of sheen!

The road in haze is dazed in dust
Crossing seems out of bound
Eyes from birth hold distrust
Under feet is slipping ground!

Cars loud honk speeding by
How far is the other side
Though it looked close and nigh
Now seems hands need a guide!

Faces of men look only half done
The letters on the board gone pale
Walking it seems is no longer fun
All sights are without head or tail!

In strangeness appears familiarity
Might fall and break my neck
Ghost like looms a known city
Left behind at home my specs!
it happened today.

— The End —