There is none but death in the ideas in which we fashion and clothe ourselves.
Their restrictiveness can’t be seen as long as ideas are likened to freedom.
I wear a cloak of death but in my mind I am the son arisen out of the grave.
I am ever new even in this cloak of death.
This cloak of death becomes my mask in which I hide my ugliness, my sexuality, my drug ab(use), my tears and fears.
Restrain, hide, compulsively like a goblin in his cave. Give in to lust in darkness only. This ragged expression of the self. In my minds house I am living freely.
With my feet though every step I take is guided by this insolent creeping, whispering, lulling and lying voice of the damned.
Hide Hide Hide.
Run Run Run.
Fall Fall Fall.
A spear thrown at the heart right at the peak of injustice.
Whence it come from whence it go to?