The Only Regret
There is someone, beating like a drum, savage and bewildered beneath a bloody and vengeful dawn.
Great is the author of our actions who forecasts the pain I inflict on myself.
He knows I'm waiting for him to make me love you, but he never shows himself.
At length I should praise him singing songs of blissful ignorance like a herd of sheep baying at the harvest moon with nothing more than bounty on my mind or temperate climates as my peaceful agenda.
As an undertone, dull and voiceless I long for revolution.
Tonight is like many others, the dark rises out of the evening perched on the ledge of mourning making sand angels in the surf while I stare off into the distance listless and prepared to adhere to a request. A voice haunts me. He has no name and no sound emmits from this darkness.
The sun rises. My request for answers fades unaware and birds sing hymns to Gods that I cannot comprehend. Something happens. A twig breaks. I wonder if it is a sign and another chance reclines in the heat rays drinking lemonade and lulling blank, wavering like a mirage, culling the storm and telling me that I am nothing, though I drown the walls in resentment and assail them with tiny fists.
I think to myself that if a thousand tiny fists were to hammer away at this sullen shroud, drawn by giants, the vale would topple and millions of ants would see the backdrop and be reborn...but I regress...who am I to tempt them. What am I to show them...
I have such tiny fists...
Great is the author of our actions who forecasts the pain I inflict on myself.
He knows I'm waiting for him to make me love you, but he never shows himself.
At length I should praise him singing songs of blissful ignorance like a herd of sheep baying at the harvest moon with nothing more than bounty on my mind or temperate climates as my peaceful agenda.
As an undertone, dull and voiceless I long for revolution.
Tonight is like many others, the dark rises out of the evening perched on the ledge of mourning making sand angels in the surf while I stare off into the distance listless and prepared to adhere to a request. A voice haunts me. He has no name and no sound emmits from this darkness.
The sun rises. My request for answers fades unaware and birds sing hymns to Gods that I cannot comprehend. Something happens. A twig breaks. I wonder if it is a sign and another chance reclines in the heat rays drinking lemonade and lulling blank, wavering like a mirage, culling the storm and telling me that I am nothing, though I drown the walls in resentment and assail them with tiny fists.
I think to myself that if a thousand tiny fists were to hammer away at this sullen shroud, drawn by giants, the vale would topple and millions of ants would see the backdrop and be reborn...but I regress...who am I to tempt them. What am I to show them...
I have such tiny fists...