The Pen and The Wind

The divine taste of love,
The thing better for life than air or blood,
For life without love is not life at all,
But the walking days of the dead,
Love, that keystone of the soul,
The only thing that constitutes true humanity,
And each of us living dead hopes to feel you,
So we may start living finally,
For you revive us and ascend us,
Into what humanity was truly meant to be. 

Of the stripped and bare chassises that rust and rot,
Would they have given all they got?
Ruining everything of the lot?

Ruminate and fascinate on silent moons,
Pondering repeatedly lonely doom,
And stripped bare of any boon.

Oh if the fires could subside,
Would I up and die?
Or live in ash and never fly?

The answer never comes,
And kills those who are dependent on it.
Mourn them, for it will be the only existing memories of them.  

There’s a bloated corpse at the foot of my bed, 
It is the very corpse of Will, 
 It sits there rotting, with dead dark eyes, 
Staring at me wherever I lie.

And where I lie is not far off,
For Will’s dead you see,
For every action there is no drive,
No reason for the decisions to which I arrive.

I’m decomposing, with rigor mortis setting in,
I’m not that far behind Will, you see,
I’d wish I could get my Will back, 
Before I too am a corpse, with eyes so black. 

But Will must feed off of drive, 
And mine starved to death.
With flame and spark simply gone,
What can one do with every day drawn?  

What if we’re already dead,
Dead, and living in hell?
Is that so far a stretch,
In this cruel world we live in?

Maybe our lives in this hell,
Are predestined by how we used to live.
Maybe the pious used to just a little faithless,
Maybe the impoverished just too greedy.

And maybe those of us who have suffered most,
Were truly good, but with just one fault,
Condemned to eternal suffereing,
Because we made just one careless slip up.

But why would the good suffer in this hell?
Because an evil place can’t stand the righteous.
And those who have so much in this world?
Well, devils have always been able to profit in hell.

Maybe we aren’t already dead,
Or maybe we really are in hell,
Either way our desire is the same,
To end up in a better world than this one.

On this beautiful day,
I find the land dead.
Not a single soul,
Upon her fields tread.

Where have the gone?
Do they cower in their shell?
Maybe I’m not alone,
Maybe this isn’t my hell.  

I was invited to attend the funeral,
For the God I was raised on. 
The one that betrayed my trust, 
The one who made me incapable of faith.

I shan’t go and mourn him,
For I have no remorse about his fate.
Call me cynical, call me what you will,
But he’s the one who made me this way.

I’m going to stay home for his funeral,
And go about my day as normal.
I’m going to abandon him,
As he saw fit to abandon me.