Cellaneous

Between the sick, subtle and slow sips of arsenic her facade slips, and you swore, for just a moment, you caught a small glimpse of penitence Petty pity for the pervasively pretty, disarms the victim as he declines politely, and finishes his tea Clutching tightly to a box of deviation it's not about who opens it, but the incipient devastation If I'm honest, the charade was always flawless, for perfection feeds this hunger, and after each performance the audience would rise, ignite, and convulse with thunder This masquerade of the human state, a simple caricature of conscience, quiets the incessant pensive debate, clearing space for the oh-so-coveted silence

Can self-serving charlatans seek salvation? Does penance prove redemption through mutilation, or modesty by means of mental devastation? If faith is not fitted for the ill-fated and dejected, then the consecrated is contrived, and the divine, defective Clutching thoughts I've gathered from the wreckage, non-compliant rhetorical questions with unclear motives and themes I know, there's no rest for the unredeemed answers are rarely, if ever, expected But I'm screaming in the ether convulsing in the abscence it seems my purpose is to writhe, but at least I know I have it How can I leave the past behind when the path ahead is just alike? Catapulting endlessly into the blinding white; the torturous contortions, compulsory conditions of the mind. If falling is not permitted, why is gravity no friend of mine? If expansion is inherent, why do I diminish over time? Clutching gashes I've amassed from the wreckage, non-cathartic rhetorical lamentations to unknown forces and dieties I know