The man

Your Beauty comes in waves, lethal waves of sulphur cutting through the silence. You say this is love but you can't commit yourself to my heart, for this is an act of the devil. And acts of the devil cannot be tolerated unless acted by the devil himself, you say your worthy, but you say a lot of things yet don't move from that chair....ever. You isolate yourself and leave me to tidy the mess you made me make. The carpet is stained and so is your hair, a deep blood red illuminated in the rays of the sunlight seeping through the depths of your long lost soul. You're a man. At least it is what you call yourself. Sometimes they will try to build walls where you sit but I can't let your beauty be taken from the monsters, they say your a monster...but we try to eradicate the things that scare us the most; the things we don't understand. And I don't understand you, but your presence gives me reasoning to carry on with the...chores. The simple everyday things. Even though you scream into my head and tell me things that one cannot ponder on but do, my love for you is unconditional. You are me and everything I need. So carry my body to a cool rest, where I lay benumbed of the greed and hatred this world seemingly provides for my kind. The light is cascading around me yet I only see dark, the air is warm but I am only ever cold, unmask yourself and reveal your true identity, uncover the monsterous demon you hide behind that white sheet that looks so pure yet dark and frightful, you are the only one who can carry me to a cool rest, the one who will lay my carcass by the river and watch me fade into the light, there is no light; it is but the small glimmer of hope you rest upon my weakened shoulders.

People fear him far more than I, I will wake up and he will be there. He does not send me into a deep slumber or paint my eyes with black he just sits in the corners of the room in total desolation. And I find it quite ironic he is the one who taught me to dance and feel alive for there is nothing worse than feeling like your dying inside...or maybe just realising that you really are . Sometimes it's better to stop thinking and be taken away by the haze of the evening. He will cry, but never move a muscle away from that chair, it's wooden frame already rotten, chipped and the paint faded long ago. I think to myself how did he get here; I just can't quite put my finger on it. Maybe one day he will carry my body...but not today, today I will carry on and try my best because today is a good day. I will tell myself this everyday but the chance of me believing it is a low, maybe one day...maybe; we can never be certain. Not him. Not me.

Who am I? I am but a girl who walks dreary steps down this dry road. And this path is merely a fragment of my imagination, a flowing stream which withholds the depths of my mind and my soul. The stream is embodied with fragrant bodies; their spirits lifted, floating into the air as they grieve on the dead mans grave. The stars have sent there men to collect the remains of who stay, and for those who leave; bring great sorrow to the remaining souls. Where are we? We sometimes ponder on the thought of death, and think about what dying truly is. But these mountains again, are but a fragment of your imagination. I never realised the pain I would induce from my daemons. He tapped the window frequently, he knew I would abide...finally. I screamed, he would sit in that chair again and again never leaving the sight of my peculiar mind. I told him he should be quiet, just for now. And I fell asleep.