Sonnet De Souffrance

If some of your demons would dance with a few of my devils... maybe I could have peace, even if for just a little while. For what is a moment if a moment is not gone in just that? The essence of time is sweet, succulent... now a mere memory, it's taste now bland, the colors it once was, and oh how it was. Magnanimous, breathtaking, like being born and born a new. Now dull, lifeless a decay to mock everything it was, was not, could be and never will be again. An echo, however bent and distorted it may have been. Perhaps the moment was bent and the persistence of time merely distorted around it. The words, twist upon my lips... like blank puzzle pieces in my eye, the eye cannot be silenced for sight never had been heard. For if sight had been heard for what then was it? Perhaps a dream, for what are dreams, memories of life not yet lived, moments not yet born? Desires of the heart unknown? For the heart is foolish a daydreamer, easily pacified and convinced it settling’s are complacent... Dream then, dream the dreams thine heart dare dream, lost within itself. The center of everything shrouded in the apex of nothingness highlighted in the subtle hue of creation.. Old is new alike yet nothing next of kin. I, the man I was, for then if i was who then was he, for what lay to rest, inside the stranger of my former self... now ablaze, destructive, raging pain as pleasure upon self, for must he truly suffer, to hold accountability for things that could never be counted, yet accounted for one by precious one. Lay must he down to rest, his fragile broken hands. For if you should dare to dance with these devils, take them by lead, or chance, round this void in time, for there never were a dance.