Shadows and Blood

Years have past and I find myself getting older, I ask for the strength to bare my own hand and prevent further dreams of destruction. Such a dream that comes true is all so more real than breathing and yet it occurs to me that every thought is inevitable and uncontrollable. A laps in hope and fate becomes an illusion with guilt and regret, we cannot be who we are without the pains of life. Every perfection is a limited breath upon our tomb and renders us weak against the demands of the modern world. My physical being is the lie of an absent shell, its life is but a mere paradox in time without the past to interfere. A shadow in the light is hopeful in its existence but regrets the fact that it can’t be bled. We are slaves to our own weakness and illusion. A shadow has no mental or physical body to relate? Yet it is there and affects us in a silent degree. You will only see your blood when you are cut from the shell We are all, but in one’s self, shadow’s and blood, without and within all concept.