Cursed with the gift of fate,
I gaze at the remains.
Recollecting memories
Of an ill fated day.

Save by exposing the truth;
strewn together
by denying affections
of the soul,

Or Cradle it with lies
Of angered appeasement
Empowered by
The meditation of a riot.

A utopia of time,
Where sullen eyed bodies
Strive towards the
Irrefutable destiny of nothing.

A minute of ecstasy
Where timeless laughs
Echo through eternity
And resonate in all that existed.

Both seem meager...
Dissipation of an existence
Is fluent in all solutions
Is there no need for an
Adequate resolution?

Salvation is what I make of it,
I twist and configure at my will.
I decide and choose an other.
For lack of hope is
what makes life still?