you
drag yourself
and crawl
along these floors
your insides painting
a horrid image
on the white marble
wrathful red lies; the only paint
you have at hand
using your pain
as paint and supplies
a place you call home
a place you should rest in
being the canvas of your own destruction
this massacre of you
will leave you hollow
and begging something
anything
to fill its void
we sacrifice ourselves
for the sake of creation
but
what happens when you
run out of you?
beaten by rage
fueled only by sorrow
you pray
for some kind of salvation
how would you ever be saved
by a fate you wrote yourself?
You shout; this is not art! This is suffering!
begging the darkness to give you
reasons to keep searching for light
you;
a burning candle
wax melting down
hands still threading
through knotted string
tying, braiding
weaving
this life of yours
which you carry like a burden
láttu lífið syngja
okkur til dauða á ný
og látum þennan snák
éta sig á ný
An eternal cycle
of creation and destruction
the beginning of you.