Tired of walking down,
the cold and dark alley of pain
Treading the pathway,
leading to no loss no real gain
He stops to take a tired breath;
and has an epiphany
He sees a man,
sitting and leaning forward
His head resting on
withered crossed arms;
his posture unnatural and awkward
The light making a hallow,
around his bent head
His brains blown out,
blood splashed on the wall
His eyes, clouded and sallow
That man is him
He examines the pattern
of splashed blood
And he finds the silhouette
of a horned old man,
leaning on a staff;
standing knee-deep in mud
He peers into his own dead eyes
focused on nothing
He pulls onto his own hair
matted with dark blood
Who were you? …. He asks
What did you really want?
I do not know and I never will…
his dead eyes answer back;
shrouded in the web
of eternal silence
I was a product,
of the darkest of all imaginations
I was created,
out of an amalgamation
The amalgamation of
pain, sorrow and deception
Slowly cooking,
upon the fire of circumstances
I hung myself all through my life;
hung myself on the cross of desire
My wrists and my ankles bled,
the nails of guilt buried so deep
My dark crown of thorns,
drew red trails on my scalp
I bled and writhed with pain;
I tasted my own salty blood;
I savored my own pain
But still I hung there,
squirming and thrashing,
on the cross of desire
I was a prophet,
a prophet who knew.
he was neither godly
nor pure
He was the devil,
he knew for sure
The prophet danced,
around the flames of life;
while the devil lurked,
in the prophet’s shadow
The devil smiled;
and the prophet,
bowed in fake humility,
and shed made up tears
But sometimes the devil
cried for real too
He cried over a broken heart
and he wept over stolen dreams
He wept and he cried,
he cried over each jagged piece
of his broken heart
He wept over each fragment
of his stolen dreams
