I can't remember the last time I tried to die.
It was long ago, somewhere between
faith and fate calling in longing
for the lovingly broken demons
to finally be able to escape
from their prison of bone
that surrounds my desperate heart.
Because only those who have
fallen in love with fiends
understand that creating art
is the loneliest of suicides.
What it means to rest
is something that I
can never seem to
comprehend,
though unconscious and fading,
flirting with the ethereal,
I never knew the warmth
that bleeds from compassion.
I can't remember the time when I wanted to live.
It was long ago, somewhere between
the numbing cold turning my skin into frost
that made my most precious rubies fall like snow,
and the endless spirals of pitch black silence
where nothing but my grave can exist
without falling victim to the cruelty of beauty.
And I spoke in tongues,
hoping that the divine
could heal the wounds
on my soul,
but everything is a circle
that leads into oblivion,
and none of us were meant
to find happiness.
Because there is no escape
from the malice in our blood,
nor from the echoes of our songs
smashing against eternity.
