Each step forward is another inch of water over my head,
another inch of dirt laid upon my earthen bed.
I've been patiently waiting for the moment I can relinquish this pen.
To finally take a second to recognize the beauty in oblivion.
To reconcile with the lingering doubts that shape our sin.
fruitless efforts masked by the sordid states we find ourselves in.

Can you recognize the static in my eyes?
The disconnecting sequences of sacrifice.
The resplendent virtues lost in compromise.
It's time to either adorn this repugnant disguise,
or atone for our unfaithful alibis.
each as equally and easily criticized, I surmise.

By general rule of thumb,
we must succumb to the numb.
to stay devout is to be hung.
Which is more vital?
Our mortality;
or our morality?

We're fermented and bred in contempt.
A grotesque gestation of our ever-growing malcontent.
a path to an apocalyptic descent,
or become a sacrament to the economic monolith.
The conflux of careless cessation
versus the precedence of profound potential.

A proclivity to remain an passive observer,
the art of becoming a paradoxical life-preserver.

The dramatization of our debaucherous dichotomy;
To feel the release of an immersive despondency,
a forlorn deviation from any sort of dedication.
The burdened desperately grasping for analytical alleviation.

Have we taken this vow of silence for fear these words may be our last?
Or, are we just too ashamed to admit our questionable pasts?

There is belligerent butchering going on in the streets,
and far worse happening beneath our sheets.
So, raise your glasses, in toast to another rotten round.
and please, whisper in my ear something so profound.

beating hearts of every eccentric convulsing in unison.
broken hearts callused by our indulgent illusions
even as we desperately try to define our emotional deficiency.
We remain blood stricken in the eyes of a bitter frequency.

Seduced by a sentimental sequence, so detrimental.
But a subtle heartbreak resides in us all,
seeping in slowly staking its claim.
The creeping convalescence bred by disdain.

The evidence is ever-present in this transcendental, diabolical diatribe.
An entitled attempt to explain why evil exists inside.
The fractured craft of every artisan’s alibis.
The perpetual longing for Aphrodite’s deicide.

The thickening plots derived under duress
an army of demons with which I have been blessed
[ Have caused me to forfeit common sense,
another distraction to search for solace under that tiny dress.