TENSION FILLED, ILL - FITTED SKIN! as a victim of what killed freedom and fate, like a pale moon rules the tide, you are pulled by strings stitched into the joints of your limbs. and you are hanging loose - every single human reminds you, there’s looped around your neck, only hangman’s noose. it is golden. it is heavy and cold and squeezing, a little tighter with every meter moved from those to whom you belong. how curious, strange - when you feel like suddenly sentenced to time, you don’t dare to look up, nor does the dying part of you have a backwards glance to spare!
(you’re walking a tightrope - thin, fading piece of wire.)
though in the remains of dying sun and sky made of diminishing fire, your shadow, a silk silhouette, it lends you the safety of near - night. your heart, you notice, your breathing ragged, it’s nowhere near right! truly you are the wolf, in fear of your sharp teeth, you dread sinister drive to snatch away white sheep. for in your stomach slick with acid is embedded this hunger - can you really bear it any longer?
it’s the disease that is birds’ golden cage, a disease making you, the condemned of this age, prisoners to the taste which you crave. and yet, in evening’s wake, you shall protect you from the self - mostly, the twisted image of who you became.
with every step you take, open another latch, another gate - a million obstacles in your way. and always an eye on the lookout for the dreaded silver case, lest it change your course of fate! it is your firm belief, unless this you see, of your life - no one can devastate you any longer. (how childish, how blind!!) and in the dying wind, adrenaline’s haze, it’s piercing gaze that makes you feel anesthetized. and the air lies still, breath heavy like pebbles weighting down your tongue. who was he? or could it be, were you recognized - from old posters? their chime that was carried in tune to a missing life?
