Something a little different from me. It kind of wallows on the darker side of life.
He woke up to a lullaby of soundless singing,
empty sounds like whispered dreaming.
The warmth between his shallow thoughts was darling
as it danced with lines of lies he’d spoke before.
His pillow was full of dreams he dreamed,
it held all his deepest thoughts,
and when he woke he liked to drain it empty.
His memories never really made him think,
and he never really blinked either.
He never really rounded on his thoughts
that he never thought were wrong.
He played a song of symphony,
such phony words would drip from his lips.
His heart, it seemed a violinist;
his hatred, the great composer.
His wants were merely what he thought;
his needs were satisfied from with out.
His solidarity was all he really grasped,
and not even he was keen on that.
He found a way to say what he said,
and do what he did without regret.
He made it seem like everyone else was guilty,
while he alone survived.
He marveled at his genius ways until the day he fell;
he drank his poison, threw it up, and stared in disbelief.
He found his hands were marked with guilt
from all that he had wove,
His clothes grew torn and tattered,
and when he walked into a room,
everyone would smile from the stories they had heard.
His shallow thoughts were what he grew in,
wading in his vested waste.
A taste perhaps of what he’d done,
brought back to cross his path.