One thing : the poem is about Kou’s death and his past.
TW : death, pain, past, mention of suicide, sadness.
Let this body die slowly on this bed.
Hours of making of, after the hours.
The life is a lamb and the silence is over.
Sweaty hair, pearls of despair, stained soul,
Curly strands, doll-eyed cadaver, smiling fool.
Martyrdom becomes an intimate desire nowadays.
Martyrdom becomes an intimate desire with a gun and a yell.
But martyrdom of the present is an intimate desire with natural bells.
Hell is other people and the left comrades
promise to keep believing it in hardships.
Past’s outrages, thanks for the fights.
It all has commenced to clear out
With tears under the sheet ; bona fide.
Oh, devil, isn’t the reality a fight ?
Oh, devil, ain’t the pain a teacher who can show the light in the dark ?
A gravity to analyze, a gravity to scan
Before the paroles make sense
And the Mukami ceases to play hard.
Happiness, so scarce.
Love, crippling, but it does bite !
Memoirs scald and their pursuit is slain.
The man uses the index to trace
an invisible mark on the face of the dead,
For the softness is like a bait
And the rest may come by.
This, awakening an ancient tale.
Random imaginations trick his sad mind :
An ask for the sooth of a particular ornamentation / prayers / in the name of the Blue Sky flares ;
With a sensational golden feel in the thorax :
The weight of importance, an intransigent obligation.
The query recites a decorum to aim a lance :
This one decked of a flawless believer’s prints who chants saint paroles :
For the wicked, retribution. For the candid, a regulation.
Wretchedness is a man stained with an old roam of mass’ lour.
Oh, the good looks ! Oh, the chanting voice !
All is equal in death, but he prefers an eye.
Glued to the stoic masquerade of hankerings,
The pacific walks in silence and finds a noise.
Big looks with a thick daydream meets a quick solution to execute the fear.
He closes the deal’s quire with a new resolution for his next lonely years.
A bombshell adequate to use, a tool for a requisite greeting,
Oh, Divine ! What to do for pleasing aristocrats ?
But it was all a bit utopian before a hit archives !
Natural selection, but it’s a no to the suicide.
Rapture of the pride, power is on his side.
Sinking his teeth like a wrathful maimed heart in the flesh of the old happy female life.
Eve in an intimate garden, he the master, he the price.
Then it’ll rain : blood and flood and beautiful claims.
Oh, look at it ! the old dying is now beautifully alive,
Chanting beliefs made by the power of his eye :
Trust nobody. Fear nobody. She’s your right.
A frail murmur, a ramshackle onus.
An Amen to not delay, a prayer to pay.
The first of the second, the second of the first.
He’s her clothing, she’s his clothing, sempiternal marriage.
Plucked from the green ground of life,
And now forging up to empty the inner bag.
Oh, male pillar of beauty with helpless devotion,
He feels pathetic to embellish the imperfection but this, a display of faith’s grandeur,
For the noblest sits on a throne with modesty
And the yen to plead guilty for insufficient good deeds is a normalcy.
Shall the old weak become the chosen king ?
… But, but.
… But this time, it’s about the blow of an official penalty.
The waltz of the death belongs to the virtue of a lifetime.
Stoked for the last, stoned to not shirk the latter.
Martyrdom becomes an intimate desire nowadays.
Special, unique, the somebody is now a nobody.
The walk of the outside world paralyzes the connoisseur and excites the ignorant.
Take a slice and fail down to honor the right taste.
Fate is already settled and we’re only takings.
Fate is already settled and we’re only talkings.
Fate is already settled and we’re only showing.
Young menaces, sempiternal threads,
falling out in a crispy green snuggery before they rule then take.
Once a sucker of pain, sugar-coated runner on the driveway,
After midnight, tip-toed and doe-eyed,
With a camera held by an adventurous hand and a piece of dreams in the brain,
Displayed in TVs but secret with the brotherly mates.
The brothers coat the beloved dead.
Draped in layers of fragrant sheets, with the proper gratitude of decorating the regrets of not saying farewell before the last breath was taken away.
String of wrath decaying, cloud of the dying
resumed to bide for the lag.
Patient : death equals, life divides.
Oh, reveille of the dim reconnaissance over the quietness.
In place to the translucency, down in the dumps.
Ruki says, « I remember the day
We both met. We were the same.
We felt the same. We understood
each other and knew we weren’t safe. »
Silence in the room, coffin stable
in the psychological picture of a
struggling man, of a lonesome wane.
Words are swords, warrior cold and done.
Losing is a war : entry of peace’s flight.
Left gauntleted thumb caresses
the intact dolly skin ; porcelain.
Fragile, dull and white.
Distant fee of freely speaking to
a vivid contact, blisters of the old insane
shown : how sad, how devastating,
drinking the lie of loving again like whines.
The lie of living again is a wine :
Nauseating and obfuscating,
and Kou is akin to aqua,
Fluid, natural, vast and bright.
Condolences.
The point of balance ; change in the wait,
Before the death, for a quick end.
Eat what’s rudely destroyed,
The killer have to be possessive about his marks and trophies.
Or bury the chosen meals instead of drowning in an egocentric rudeness.
6 feet under the ground,
Corps with three layers of pauper albescent sheets
With a neutral perfume in the grave because of its emptiness and unbearable silence.
As if this could protect the innocent from hellfire.
The unknown is obligatory met.
And the second, Eve, shall feel the greeting of the pain.
"Ah, this is pissing me off. You think you have me all figured out, don't you, huh?!" As Kou finished reading the poem, his mood dropped significantly. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Congratulations, anon. You unlocked violent Kou.