Most people don't like a maniac...that is if they know he's a maniac. Which is to say, if they'll listen, or open their eyes. The clues are always there, usually in plain sight. Why aren't the pieces put together, why are they always taken apart? Smashed apart? Torn open like flesh. A pipe clashes with a smile. Teeth are broken. Somewhere someone is crying, bleeding, thirsting. Somewhere someone is...someone is.
In the dead of night a woman's calling: A siren song from on high. Should I prostrate myself? Swear my fealty? Or does my foolishness run even deeper? Upon the rocks I cast myself. A thousand times I cast myself, yet still the banshee shrieks. No mercy--not for the wicked.
Regret is the blanket of a fool, his dreams his bed. And in the moment of his waking he despises himself. Upon the rising of the sun despises himself. He awakens with the same thought with which he shuts his eyes each night.
All be beyond yours.
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