Standstill.
Frozen
Paralysis
Induced by shock
The explosive
Detonated
Or so it seems.
Why?
A simple
Not
Question.
How did it come to this?
Indeed
It was a long journey
A perilous trek
Through jungles
Of illusions
Swamps
Of lies
Traipsing haphazardly
In the dark
Guided by a faint light
Seeking
Hoping.
It was poetic.
A connection
Thin ribbon
Between two souls
Illogical
Incomprehensible
A gruesome combination
Mixing black and white
Never produce
Bright colors.
Reminisce
Look back
Figurative footsteps
But
Two.
Once
He walked
Alone
But he found
A companion
And for a moment
It seemed better.
Like a candle in the dark.
Candle and the dark?
Perhaps
His dead-fish eyes
Saw the world
Through
Undead visions
Monotonous
Cold
Cynical.
With her
He could see
If only for a bit
Clearer.
If only.
All those years ago
Alternative answer
Produce a different
Color.
Deep inside
Under layers
Bitter memories
Painful lessons
Still
He was simply
Just another boy.
He did not choose cynicism.
Cynicism chose him.
Once bitten
Twice shy
Man is a blank canvas
But he does not
Paint himself.
Nature is always the artist.
We are but canvas.
Different colors
Denote
Personality
Character
Shades
How bright the smile
How dark the tears.
He was cursed
Blessed
His bright colors
Splashed over
With black and white
Cold hues
The only consolation
They were real.
Are they?
Smile
Like paint
Fades.
Heat and rain
Come hell
High water
Life will make
Or break
A man.
The recipe for a cynic.
Mix rejection
Depression
Acceptance
Cold logic
And a chronic hatred
For youth.
He had forgotten
But now
Remember
Like a projectile
Finally penetrating
The presumptive barrier
In his mind
Realization
All this time
He had fawned over
This relationship
False satisfaction
Deception.
All this time
Simply
A measly deal
With the fire queen.
A friendship
Forged in pain and delusion
Hastily constructed
Heat of the moment
A blatant lie
Another illusion.
This relationship
Like a drug
Stave off insanity
Because the antidote
He did not deserve
Always
Out of reach.
A placebo
He deceived himself
Believing to be true
When the truth
He was still plagued
Slow-induced poisons
And she was the delay
Never the cure.
Truth may be a lie.
One that we choose to believe in.
A man
Such as he
Never deserved
Such privilege.
Friendship is a privilege.
One that is reserved for the few.
Do not forget
His methods
Modus operandi
Dogma by which he lived
A self-destructive
Counter-productive
Cynical
Rotten
Cold
Logic.
Two figures
Black ice
Sweet fruit
Playing in his mind
A repetitive tape
Now a nightmare.
He loved them.
If he could
If.
That ideal
That privilege
Alas
It cannot be.
He who does not have compassion
Does not deserve compassion.
Quite a wretched philosophy
Yet it had a point
Albeit
Razor sharp.
But her?
A beautiful face
Emerald green
Golden blonde
Like fine silk
A sculpture of perfection
Her skin
Like porcelain
A figurine
Excellent.
But
Like a display
Look
Not touch.
She was certainly a work of art.
Thus
He cannot
But look
Behind
A figurative glass.
She was a mirage.
Too good
To be true.
Did he love her?
Yes
But actually
No?
Admiration.
That may be a good word to put it.
Genuine?
Perhaps
Another lie
He chose to believe
Because he too
The loner
The cynic
Runs away.
Genuine?
Bullshit.
Who am I kidding?
A fancy word
In other words
He was being
Picky.
Like a child
Selective
Only the brightest pieces
When all of it
The same sweet
Or bitter
Chocolates.
Cherry-picking
Truth or lie
Genuine
Can
Possibly
Perhaps is
Anything.
Should it be a reason to make an innocent girl cry?
Perhaps not.
Chase after her!
