Own Little World
I dream of a dank world where the fallen have flown to the ends of the universe to be
among the un born abominations who spin wild and free of social contraption.
These are the fortunate ones of the lost and the chosen.
But back here in the storm of absolute vacancy the Dark syndicates are free to choke the
ears of any who stray to close.
Soldiers of the silent serenade.
Trained in the art of apathy, they orchestrate the tides to the rhythm of our drowning
screams.
To suffocate the source you must first pull back the flesh and disarm the harsh defenses
of the forgotten.
We can not stand on the fore front with out those who will fall before us.
This is where we will fall...Where we will stand...
And where the dead will find a place among the righteous.
I saw this happen ounce before in a dream. But this...this is not that dream I had.
No, This is the world where I live.
A hard and cold place where we are smothered in the ashes of our own.
Choking on splattered rain drops from Gods bloody tears.
This is not my world!
This is not a real world.
No...NO!
A world can not possibly exists where the faces are diversified by only the scars of war.
If we possess the pieces to the bullet holes in Fathers heart then why can't we help him?
Chaos feeds into me.
And I can no longer run.
Hiding from some thing that is all ready hidden is like running from death its self and I
will have to choose soon.
If wishes could be made then all I wish is for you to be true.
To fall and be forgotten or to rise and burn in shame?
I seek not the reasons to the answers of why I must choose but hear from me this:
"I will neither fall nor rise for any man or any of his Gods!"
Choice's are for choosing and I am here to choosing against your taking.
I will choose my own future as well as make my own decisions.
This is not up for discussion.
This not up to you.
This is me telling you what I will do.
This right here, right now, is me orchestrating your screams in the fires of the fallen.
You will die and tomorrow I will follow.
This is the setting for the son of the Farther.
From the Beginning and into the end of time this is the story of how we will fall and you
will follow.
(I'm not sure what type of poetry this would classify under and contrary to my earlier
preconceptions of how poetry is conceived I've just now come to realize that there is no
need to rhyme your words unless of course, as I used to do, you like to write that way.)
Copyright © Chase Miller | Year Posted 2010
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