I Am Flattered By My Own Death
Someone who once loved me dearly
Now despises me.
In such small things are paved the roads to hell.
A turning away from grace.
A tail-spinning stumble down the stairs,
Hitting my head on my lofty ideals
On my mistaken belief in cloud formations.
The death of romance sheds the most morbid shade of grey.
The diminishment of beauty.
The banal stretched over the profound makes a tight drum.
To beat ourselves with.
To the rhythm of the degradation of good true love between a man and a woman.
Nothing works the way it should.
Nothing works out except for death.
My heart has begun beating backwards,
An awkward, syncopated dance of the soul backing into oblivion.
Still unaware that the absence of pain is yet another symptom of impending death.
I am lost within my own mausoleum.
My hoof-steps clopping against the hard marble floor
In between the torn parts of my heart lying strewn about;
Unburied memories of the deepest wounds.
My heart is broken by the shards of paranoia
that spin from a fragile mind.
My curses are my memories distilled from the deepest wells of regret.
Time is but a dancer
But a spinning dancer; nonetheless.
Across a floor of tilting emotions
By which we measure so adamantly our sense of inner self.
I am not my monsters.
But I am the pain that they inflict.
Now falling like rain
On those that I love and those who now despise me.
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