silence screams out, baffling
splashing sludge across the faces of our mace. eyeballs, searing pain. we cry mundane for the inopportunity to smile.
rage and rage and rage and rage
cast rats into his cage, to devour the final page, a nervending storybook to tell his tale of the propoganda phase. draw sylables, paint poems, color in the words to smear the pasty face across the sick and dreary diary of his melancholy gaze.
he beats and screams his opulent pristine fantasy ways. and pummel pages into faces like their blank stares so transfixed on his obvious failure, he begs the quietest quiet,
without the screaming silence
he finds baffled pages in dictionary phrases to plea that he could see and be seen as a moment meant to be clean.
don't pass away, give away, or throw away his evanescent putrescence. you never know how long it takes to wipe clean the spoils.
he's no building buried beneath it's burns, no ruin left ruined in its recumbent state.
the wrecking balls find his wrecking pages and tell the tale to his face to see it squeeze in consternation, his voice screams silent, baffling, to plead a way to find a way to get away.
the spider webs form their cob webs, lost in the pits that he begged them to dig.
and he speaks to the walls as the creatures crawl into his skin and he surrenders to his sin, lost in his tired syringe, he mumbles his appologies to the dirt he lost his way into.
he beats nails into his claustrophobia to stifle his awakening.
so far as he's concerned, there's only the walls.
he breathes deeper as the air seeps closer to his crisping lungs: all almost gone.
he likes the thought of crumbling down. he likes to see the ruins ruin themselves.
no more speaking, no more noise.
the silence has gone silent and
he found peace in the pieces of peace.
lost in dread and tormented by his own placidity. the empty feeling he feels while watching all the wheels spin and grind against the heels of all his former foes, he couldn't understand how hollow he could become.
in his walls, he can fall and whisper to them all that he doesn't miss them.
he didn't need them.
he rages on, all day, every day, in constant animosity. no more sadness in his emptiness, just the dead and peeling sores that he bore on the day that he said his goodbyes.