Really there is no truth to what they say

At the end of the road is a sign; be as it may

Mayborn perhaps, August nevermore.

Decipher that one and salutations

For clever unobservations, of meaning.

Still this is meant for you. There is no backtracking.

Just shrapnel’s of glass found within my skin.

Storied that are shared between the unprepared,

Are the sweetest because they resound.

Healing is feeling.

Deceiving is killing.

Why would one commit to such an act upon oneself?

The horror of such larceny upon a felled-down man.

You are here. Make the best of you.

Better yet, make the best of us.

Usurping pithiness becomes bliss.

Forgiveness strength.

Beyond reckoning.

Deny you that would become a self-reflecting revolution.

A chuckle and a wink. A turn of a word. Can truly build a world.

But don’t take my words on it. See for yourself.






And just to contradict myself.