Pi-rate

For the moments I was weak and fled instead of fought. For the moments I lashed out instead of talking. For the moment I failed to hold to my word and buckled to pressure. For the moments I failed to be a man and instead was a monster. So many crimes I cannot even list them. So many hearts and minds broken by my childish stupidity. So many things for which I must atone, but do not have the patience to. I am too eager, to guilty... Too angry with myself to wait. But such shall be my suffering: Distance and time. And in the years to come, if I have become a man worth knowing, then I shall have the opportunity to redeem myse

When you wonder why my touch has grown cold: Ask them. When you wonder why my lips have become hard and brittle: Ask them. When you wonder why my hands no longer caress your cheek: Ask them. When you wonder why my heart no longer calls: Ask them. When you wonder why my eyes have emptied: Ask them. When you wonder why my mind no longer pauses from spite: Ask them. When you wonder why I'm not around: Ask them.

The songs shall sing of bravery and valour, but the soldiers knew what lay in store. After all, such songs are only sung to commemorate the fallen. They pretend victory awaits them, and they smile empty smiles for the people, but they know what lies across the horizon. Such songs are only sung to commemorate the fallen. They raise their swords and cry out in triumph. They hold their banners high and take in the cheers of the people. They have no doubts, for such cheers are merely lies spoken to the damned.

The King set down his golden crown as he stood alone set to drown in a sea of stones cast upon him like waves on the shore: The light grows dim as his spirit fades faster than ever before. The people cheer, they shout with glee: "Be gone from here!" they sang in chorus, hatefully.

He has no fate; He marches on; His sword is dull; His heart has no song; The drums pound; The skies are red; His feet pummel the ground; He knows he'll soon be dead. He does not remember why he came, he only remembers why he left. Wether or not she'll remember his name, this is where his love shall stand the test. He marches on with sword in hand as his face grows long as the enemy charges towards the land. He grits his teeth and his knuckles grow white, the earth shifts beneath as he readies his strike. Will he live? Or will he die? Was it worth it to give, or was his love a lie?

The drums had died. The trumpets were no longer blaring. The soldiers no longer screamed. The widows no longer wept. There was only silence. The Prince looked towards the King, and the King released a solemn sigh. There was nothing to say: Too many empty words amidst this tragedy.

The King put down his heavy crown and looked unto his people. They cheered with glee as he silently peered down from upon the steeple. The Father smiled all the while as the King proclaimed the end. As the Church commands the King to stand and all the rules to bend. His fist did clench at the wretched stench of lies and treachery, and no less at the lies he confessed of the Church's lechery. The people roared as their faith no longer soared, and the Fathers face grew dim: So he struck him down, and took his crown, and declared "Blasphemy" upon him. The King walked away, never to return that day, from the people and t

"TRIUMPHANT!" the people cry. "TRIUMPHANT!" the King lies. "TRIUMPHANT!" the knights proclaim. "TRIUMPHANT!" the Queen screams in vain. The jester laughs, the Prince turns: Both grow cold as the shadows converge. "There's no denying it now," the Prince whispers so sweet, "it is past our time, and we all must die." "There's no denying it now," the jester laughs so bold, "I shall be the last, and there is no doubt." The Gods rode down upon their heavenly steeds, and with a mighty fist they crushed the Jester and the Prince while the delusional fools cried into the night: "TRIUMPHANT! TRIUMPHANT! TRIUMPHANT!" The King did not weep

Sometimes I wish I was a Superhero. I could soar across the sky and keep an eye on the otherwise unsuspecting civilians down below. Sometimes I wish I was a bird so I could soar like never before through metaphoric open doors and stand toe-to-toe with God and settle the score. Sometimes I wish I was an angel so I could shimmer with grace and put chaos in its place with a smile upon my glorious face while displacing time and space. Sometimes I wish I was a normal man.