Imprimir The Endless Spectator by Tristan Robert Lange

The endless spectator,
An eternally tortured soul
Sitting, dreaming, as in a slumber,
Waiting for the ancient summer rain.

He used to be there
Dancing down metal strings,
Experiencing the sacred rush
Of screaming metallic reverberation.

Countless ages of uselessness
Separate the man from his past.
It was a past so dream-like
That its reality seems doubtful.

Trapped inside a blindly chosen life,
Eternally forced toward self-reflection,
The pain of the endless inquisition
Strikes the man down with desperation.

Drowning in a sea of despair,
Watching millions of excuses float by,
He picks one hopelessly,
Only to discard it after a moment.

He picks another, then another,
Each time just as hopeless,
Discarding them all
While sinking deeper down.

The man in his delusion,
Is stuck in the moment of loss,
Grasping for air with no luck;
The moment is forever lost.

Helplessness, the state of fear
Takes control, it owns him.
Sweat now profusely pours out.
Yet nothing, absolutely nothing, changes.

\"Death makes fools of us all,\"
The man thinks while praying.
No answer is given, the silence is still;
Death is true and truth is all.

\"So die,\" The man says out loud,
\"Die with passionate pain.\"
He welcomes death with an anxious smile,
Hoping to fade into utter nothingness.

To cease to be is the culmination of life.
It\'s the cessation of the curse that
Incubates in the womb and is born
Into a world that feeds on failure.

\"Let me die,\" the man cries out,
\"Let this cursed life end.\"
The plea falls on deaf ears
As the torture is meant to be infinite.