Life is what you make of it

Here we sit in the darkness our dark wings folded into eternity.

Trapping us inside routine and never putting our mark on the world.

This place I shall never go to again.

I am the calm before the storm,

the whipping wind

the electricity in the air

the moment of vertigo before the fall never after or at the end.

My reflection shows one of not a man but a microbe,

not grown yet to its potential horrific self.

Never the knowledge of its future so dark and shadowed from reality.

For a chair is only a chair because we were brought up to see it as one.

I make the stars seem dim as I shine above the rest white light surrounding me,

like night blooming jasmine penetrates the darkness leading to midnight.

I am the bell that tolls at the witching hour.

The tree that falls in the woods when no one is around.

I make a sound yes. I make a sound.

One of the sword and not the pen, for fighting is truly the essence of humanity

the one thing we can actually be proud of,

we fought to get where we are even though here isn’t the way it should be.

The last warrior on the battlefield is always the most unlucky

living with the knowledge of killing all those souls.

The dead are the lucky ones here.