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.