REHASHED
--is how you feel (perceptions fixed to singular visions).
The elasticity of your mind worn like your youth.
With no reward of patient maturity.
Silence is your only solace.
Shallow breathing your golden rule.
You sit in the dark.
Alone.
Knees cramped.
Eyes swelled with the salt of sweat spilt as you (desperately, desperately) try to stop yourself.
Paradoxes are only linear in life.
B follows A because C must be born.
The blood flows because the wound has been torn open.
The horror.
It is not a state, but a state of mind.
The little taste at the back of your throat, tickling with pins because you know it's true.
Did the word come before the voice, or did we just bleed our minds?
Did the action entail the intent?
There is no chance.
Did she die in your arms, or is it just a matter of perspective?
You hold her form, still and lifeless and trickling warmth away down your shirt.
Did she die in your arms?
Still and lifeless and ready for the box.
Is it at all real?
Is there shape too be had, form too be seen, or is it simply lines drawn in hopeless segments?
Hopeless.
A shape.
Fixed in dimensions.
Buried beneath the ground.
Feeding the cycle.
Promoting the urge.
Now you have nothing left to do but smile.
Now you have nothing left to do.
Above the stars go spinning by, all taken to their wanderings but one.
A blinking nail straight above you.
He does not move, he does not feel, he does not scream or sigh.
This is his pain.
Stretched black canvas with festering wounds.
Cardinal directions are defined by the lights of martyrs.
Sitting, breathing, crying up at its dead light and knowing the pain of knowing.
This is not pain but pleasure.
This is not solace but sedition.
You are your own god and you are--
Smarter.
Softer.
More comfortable.
Sitting.
Alone.
In your own personal heaven.
Watching yourself die.