Am I a work of fiction? Mercilessly being written day by day at the dark whims of a mad author? Is my dream never to be actualized? Or does it merely play at the mind of a dead shell spiraling through unending nightmare? I feel I'm trying to adhere to sheet ice. I am no river styx able to circle this oppresive Hell. This vessel is haunted, I can hear the empty creaking. Nothing spectacular. Nothing new. Where are you and why are you not at my side? Better yet, who are you? I am still unable to make out your bleary silhouette. Tell me something beautiful...and I'll lend you a begging ear.

"His blood be on us and on our children." They screamed. Unrelenting in the need for his violent destruction. I know. I too feel the burden of the solid wood bearing heavily on a bruised back. Except his death was in vain for a world that could care less. Why did you bother to resurrect oh lord? I'd have killed you too. A thousand times over. Malicious? Its hard to be straight and narrow in a warped, fustrated world. Your dream fell into the ranks of mine. Lost through cold, uncaring injustice. Truth be told you were no more of a deity then I. Now sit with me and let our dried tongues loll out as we are left to burn, and wish. For I hate you as I hate all of them. As I hate myself.

I feel no remorse because I was not at fault. I don't believe this aimlessly. I know this whole-heartedly. One day I'll find my truth. One night I will sleep well in content. When you are suffering, know that I have betrayed you


Copyright 1999, 2000 Pages of Discord





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