lost symbol

In the garden of death, flowers bring the desperation of a million souls. No contention can ease the desperation of grasping for life like suspending ones self from a cliff, never intent on the spiraling disillusion of the life that is desired but unknown. Rising like a ocean of pleasantries, the morning sunrise brings mercy and hope. The crimson sunset brings with it disdain, angst, and sorrow. Ignoring the dark glow of the beckoning night, the state of your mind crumbles like a stone wall during a earthquake, shattered and displaced, left in ruin to be forever forgotten.

In the depths of us all, every step leads us to the last, every breath to the end. In all that we leave behind, nothing is remembered as the winds of time blow clean our minds leaving memories faded. We remove ourselves from dreaming today knowing the nightmares that come will bury our souls in despair, in pain, in turmoil, all that slowly rot away the roots of our conscienceness and self being. It leaves us wallowing in the pool of our lives, drowning ourselves in misery and the absurdity of relinquishing the hold that our mind grips tightly, unrelenting, unwavering, disgusted by what the mirror transposes in our eyes.

This is the last time …

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