Questions of the Forbidden
Why?
The interrogation of my terrain remains united with the departure of my illicit rout.
Unanswered;
It remains unanswered.
Every neglected weep of desolation seems to surrender into a twisted sense of homecoming.
As if I sought for it.
As if I craved for it.
As if I was such a deceiving fool to find comfort in the con of my own coiled hatred.
Every huff of laughter blooms in the scored rage of my cruel consciousness.
Every wretched scald for logic cuts through my stripped armour of malice.
Every beseeched gouge for a way out ignites the contamination of my polluted isolation.
Why?
The secluded sagacity of my sadistic void fades with the shaves of my skin.
As if an answer would demolish the fences of my enclosure.
As if an answer would kiss my wreckage back together.
As if an answer would dim the conceited lights of a blinded stage; a theatre dedicated to the amusement of my liberated decay.
I ask you a question.
Yet perhaps, all this time…
The answer has been inked onto the rot of my revolting ruin.
I am my own void.
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