Layla; Part III (Redemption and love in a world of chaos)

But the truth is, darling, I don't know what to do.

The world day by day descends into horror, and chaos reigns. Lies and the truth begin to blur and fold into one another like ice melting in a glass of alcohol. You don't know where one ends and the other begins, and one way or another it must be swallowed.

Does the river drink your tears? Does the sky know the perfume scent of your skin? Do the stars die at the thought of competing with your eyes? Will you allow me possession of your heart?

The world dies a little every day. All the beauty, all the passion, all the flesh and bone truth, they all fall into memory and darkness. 
Only the facade, and the hypocrisy and false ecstasy, and the death of innocence awaits us. This world oozes decadent images. It surrounds us and tricks us into obedience and a false sense of righteousness.

Oh, my love. My Layla. It's overwhelming. The crosses are too much to bare. Believing the lie.

Does the magic begin at your lips?
Have there been no more wonders of the world since you were born? Do you know when you need saving? And religion reads like comic books when I'm inside of you.

The lies we fight and tell to get through a single day. How can we function? How does the heart not cease to beat? How can our souls sit by quiet and sullen as we squander the precious moments?

Even with all my maps and compasses, and the truth burning bright that all roads lead to you. Why still can I not reach you? How can you still be so far away? Even at the touch? You are still off in another world. Another life. And our plains of existence do not cross over.

Does the river drink of your sweet and bitter tears? Does the sky cry like you and wet my face? Where does our bond finally connect us? When I'm kneeling, and beholding of you at first light, in your shrine of grace, at your feet.

And you, my priestess, give life back to me. And we walk through the rubble and decay and ruin of this hideous new world. We have no need for it. Its pleasures are not ours. Let us ruminate over its shallowness not a second more.