After the long days of characterised obsession,
when days gone scold the corners of my eyes,
my sluggish form drags itself to a standstill
of which I have not encountered before.
I walk in the shadows of the men I created,
bound by the duties of mental apparitions.
Their doctrines embrace me with religious clarity,
and spiritual notions of that which impassioned me.
But these are the ghosts of the past, present and future.
Divisive and hostile when not adhered to the fullest.
Conflicted with pain and lack of direction,
and chained to a body of pained recollection.
Is it too much for me to be one with myself?
Am I a vessel for too many more?
I carry my burdens over many a shoulder -
all weep for the child they leave in the ground.
But if I\'m inhabited by the voices of many,
then which is the one who writes this now?
And if what he writes be true,
what can he convince me of?