A Poem From My Ao3.

A poem from my ao3.

Lovely voices of everyday life extend beyond their recognition.

May our voices reach their fullest potential, for only ourselves know the truth behind every word we speak.

With every glare, comes a price.

Brewing madness sets apart from the rest.

Tearing apart the fragile seams of civility.

Nihilistic juxtapositions between man’s souls and demeanor speak deeply to those with whom they claim they have seen enough.

Apathy runs rampant among individuals of all backgrounds, including those whose sense of self has rooted deep within themselves until it has become nothing more than a tarnished, bitter reality.

March’s spring weather proves unkind this year when the defiled floors have been swept with the wrath of the no longer existing civility of one individual.

An individual who stands in unison with another has made their decision to stand tall and riot against those that they consider less than they are.

To most, this individual is nothing more than an entity of hatred.

But often not, most overlook the journey of such hatred.

Behind those oak colored eyes that bore with hatred, there once was happiness behind them.

Once filled with laughter’s light now darkened by shadows of betrayal.

A child of joy, forged by a world of indifference.

In the ruins of swept civility, hatred blooms where hope once grew.

Now what remains is the faint metallic fiddle of his gun and the occasional swaying of his dark clothes, a shadow moving through silence.

His name will become synonymous with tragedy once the deed is done.

The consequences will be quick enough to make him suffer.

Hatred knows no patience, and the pact binds tighter than doubt.

Bound by a silent oath, forged in the ashes of what they once believed in, with a steady breath, he lifts the trembling gun, yet the tremor in his arm makes it almost impossible to properly hold the cold gun.

So, he aims at his accomplice first, as they both had planned, letting his fingers take away.

The sound of the harsh collapse disperses throughout the scene, the silence deepens, only his shadow remains.

The cold barrel touches his temple, closing his eyes, the final blow reveals itself whole, a promise of oblivion.

As both blood puddles mix together, penetrating itself into the floor accumulating with a grand, singular red stain, it is as if their lives and their fates were never truly separate, only slowly being woven into a singular tapestry of ruin.

« Ralph pleurait la fin de l’innocence, les ténèbres du cœur de l’homme et la chute dans les airs d’un véritable et sage ami appelé Piggy. »

-William Golding, Le Seigneur des mouches.

Preciptous arrival of the ides

The ides of March approached rapidly with great anticipation.

Bestowed upon time’s constant perpetual dance, patience has no place amid the need to demolish the gnawing incapacitate that held ambition to a pause.

A revolution against cowardice, for the valiant never taste of death but once.

For what is known as a vibrant culture

There amongst resided two revolutionaries that contrasted this phenomenon.

One of them, with bold might, plot alongside the other.

Though their differing ages were apparent physically, their minds were all too similar.

The younger of the two swayed the elder, yet the elder not refused the sway of such delicious deliverance.

For, many centuries ago, there lived two. They staged their own revolt against cowardice.

The men of the past held their daggers high—

their shame nonexistent upon the knowledge of the enormity that the downwards thrust would bring

that they repeated again and again.

Modern times tell a messy tale—an interconnected, violent shout pleading for the reassurance of existence.

The people stand by; as they watch in bewilderment, unbeknownst to the sheer intensity that the two reborn schemers promised to bring long ago.

The people squirm amidst the pressure of a shortened run.

All while the conspirators celebrate their shortened run with their own splatter to tell of the impatient rage that brewed so immensely within them.

The nurture of a larger state proved futile in the eyes of the already developed stubbornness that man hold so dearly

For the deepest betrayal never comes from an enemy.

It is not he who deals the first blow whose cut runs deepest.

It is he that picks his dagger of choice and lunges towards with great determination to leave nothing but a carcass of what used to be

For every modern conspirator, a day earlier from the irreversible gash in time—one that will never heal to perfection.

Mankind witnesses the turbulence of the everlasting wound, yet seeks no form of darn.

Humility is forgotten amidst the heavy need to instigate and inflame even after such sullen juncture

Of the timeless dilemma of the fickle nature that mankind possesses, there lies contingency giving its deserved guffaw towards the mass of negligent existence who are so unconcerned by the unceasing consequences of the wound that remains far too stubborn to heal

Amusingly, the one entity who knows of the everlasting wound amalgamated alongside the conspirators.

Tedium mass tear apart the conspirator.

For his involvement, for his pride, for his audacity, and for his wretched bad verses.

Pluck his name out of his heart for he is far too mad.

Pluck, pluck—for the stinging reasoning of such acts is far too immeasurable, in its rawest form, to bear being recognized.

Mankind—all alike.

The siren calls of bliss lead to the depths of ignorance.

No greater than the other

Including the deviants that showcased their rage raw.

Each proposition has its counter.

No matter how far one attempts to shy away from their own liability.

Albatross gives its serenade of admonish for mankind to abhor.