Departed trail & Bitter trials.

In a place I shouldn’t be, a time of day I shouldn’t be out in, and in a harsh weathering state out in the world as well as in myself. I walk close to the edge of a pier and I feel the water basking its weight when it jumps on top of the metal construction that I walk. The wind is different in that it comes directly to me in fidelity. Traces of smells make it so familiar. A salt sharpness with an old dirt hue that comes from a space of always seating but always rocking to and fro.

In its bastion scent comes sounds of memorable animals scoffing above that have since flown elsewhere in this encroachment of today’s weather. Next is the tripping crashes of a body coming down to coastlines, and the imagen kicks of sand lifting as steps go about the beach; oh’ the ocean air. That memory scented wind wraps around me in a brisk embrace around the chest and shoulders. To and fro, it rocks me like a bobbing buoy. All things added to a storm I just could hardly bear and it was a reflection of what my own inner self was troubled in.

Flowing currents tilt a pouring engulfment that rattles against itself in wickedness; these amounting things were the clouds raging in movement. This chaos ate its way into the heavens. Blackened the rows of spiral staircase, dropping and popping strings of muse angel guitars, these beings running from their duty to play a somber song to please and place peace to the resting atmosphere. But in all fear to what came, abandoned are postings and unmanned positions as an evil expression takes the sky. As if blocking the nations of man from the lasting home that would’ve been united in.

On high, smiting actions are above my person. I could not tell the hurling stance before the releasing screams of violation, of the air in bright condonation. Whistling speeds of breaths unseen but felt around me, then drums, vibrations then gasps, all which lasted for so long that it became the sound and force around. I perceived treks and tricks of forms that moved along in haze perfection before. How exhausting is these wilds and vale suited curtains hung above like a worldly encased fortress. 

Into myself I call out to God. Not to the God of Greek Lighting, not to Norse lords of thunder, not to Shinto religious storm bringers, nor to the lavish specters of any pantheon. I, a walking work of oddity; I, a heretic of receptions and of lofty calamity. I sit, describing a storm above the sea where in I settle in myself and consider my life, or what I suspect it to be. Oh’ the sea, water comes in and goes but each return brings this springing thought that overturns, overtakes, and sinks the banks of my heart to then to arrive at a conclusion. The waters were of death; and I was being carried away towards it and what I feel are reasons to warrant it. 

There is some hurt, some passion, and some source of evil in my heart. But my personal perceptions are untrue and never trustworthy, my allotted experiences show no wisdom to maturity, and my lamentation of enamored ignorance shows myself as a threat to myself. Belief in old assurances has made me stand on predictable prejudices where I hold these things like models to exist happily. The formation of these ideas if I can describe as a sphere of wrapping thorn reeds that spiral in one dragon king’s breath. Oh’ the devil welcome it inspires.

My understanding of things comes with open opinions that become this amalgamation of thoughts in subsequent substance of a sickness I spread. I find in this storm of myself and outside on a pier in some beach I was randomly near and decided: in all omen signs, dreamed superstition, common sense or judgment, and out of some vanity is a often neglect to truth, to God. Below my watery flesh is a collection of charcoal static images flickering in various sizes of worth and pain, like a slideshow. These things are my collective face or signature presence of my conscience; “I am not me”. 

My facing smile that greets and does well to behave for it was grafted by others for others approval, my conscience. Oh how it plays the part of a falsehood that its voice casts an echo and plays like a soft tune; but it holds itself a hidden purpose. In a cornered place, not shelved because that would sound as though it was placed above the things that push its once pure and clean silhouette to the back, my soul. Its always pushing itself to be heard for its my salvation. But the most vocal or be it more felt by me as it has always been with me even in the absence of others, in a mouthing pit, a monster that reaches out.

With many heads and eyes like a fabled Hecatonic creature that held envyus hunger for a life not in me. With cats tail whip like tendrils that have tied in pieces of sharp rocks, glass, metal, and any matter of pointed or edging roughness. Its desires to not to be caged in morality nor wants to be buried under stacking reasons to behave quitely. The calmness had been torn out from me, I sank away from the great shapes of the world and stability departed away.

There is no innocence left in me as it would have called out a word into the dry light, out from my vacuum of sight pointed only on me, out from the corner it darted a view to me and wishing to be with me; my soul. My arrogance is the result of being ignorant of a place in the world which I have plundered in action when thinking of how my inner world was as small as a pond and only reflected me. And such thoughts are what pushes me down into a watery tomb. My clothes are dressed to be warmly are at least tries to hold as much of it while I sit in this embracing sea air and the storm cluttering of noise.   

It otherwise still has not changed when I traveled into my own hollow self. Like I said before, below the surface of my chest peering into my heart laying pit, in the darkness was this monster.  It cuddles against the inner halls of my pierced heart. Clutched in, what I know is their appointed and welcoming hand, a sealed belief of colors: white, red, black, and one of sickly paleness.

The white, is the clear conquest of seeds that defile me with self destruction, with in it is the first radiance of beliefs inside me. This thing takes peace from my chest, tightens me, places derangement in me, places havoc in me, places me outside the world so I can only be alone, and of course places a civil conviction in me towards my morals. I tare myself apart because of this drowning anger which is the breaking interruption of the loud color of red. I fight the thoughts and in it I draw in the colors of violence and anger as I see nothing but things about myself turn to things I hate. In that I am at war with myself. 

Hidden from my gaze is any help from out of me. Budding is a thirst for any stability of self, and a feeling of resentment that both is giving this imprint of plagued starvation for just peace. The skin thins over muscles that stretch out for help as I curse the sedition I make myself to believe. I feel this laughter of mad pestering silence that is a black as the color describes as emptying in me. Oh’ the color of nothingness and being alone with yourself in it, what a plague. 

As a wretch, a foul, a lost, and tattered man looking for salvation. I walk forward in the diversity of adversity that pelted me. My back is hunched over in displeasure over the ambiance awaiting me at these so called salvaged lines of humility, that I feel is just humor. I try to hold a rhythm in the laughter I feel is in my head and the toll prologue of surviving when I deeply want to keep this monster in. Then that last color, that last breath in me, that lastness of lasting impression, the color of death is here.

And with it, the final marching chariot brings my hell upon me. A sound of ten thousand coupled and reprimanding harpy wings clapping into the air, they flock to me in my half hearted attainment and adornment in my unsteadfast nature, impure speeches, nor practice in prosperous studies of gospel. I’m stuck looking at myself. The holding world of myself is a realm of these reprised contents that is a hedging agendas of termoral that does work in ruining my life, they sabotage me. I see Acheron waves appear to me in the distance as I’m down settling in my thoughts and I stand up in wrongful clearity.

Why must I weep? Why must I postpone the conversations of my future? Correction segments of segregations between fair nerves on angels wings and with double plated meals of devils fruits. Someone help me before I chamber it in a revolver and have it hit me emptily. Hold out of reach my actions, hold tight my neck and limbs; just hold me back. A breath to the end leaves me and I leap to it. Crackling static wail above me at my dispose position in the air, I dive in greeting death’s hold. 

I can feel the slow filling of salt water taking and expanding inside me, like a child I was unwatched in my own attending grief. Spasms to my voice keep me from calling a goodbye. Quietly hyperventilating in panic as the air leaves. It goes and I’m left back to this. The sin rises as it departs to the night sky.

Maybe if I could slow my lethal end; then my pain wouldn’t feel like a thorn on the heart or a bad tooth resting on a nerve. Permeating my lungs is this pain as it’s nearly unresting as one thing can save me. There are no signs of my dying self; no swarms of flies, no circling vultures and crows, and not yet that putrid sickness ravaging the air. I feel like a novice trying to pull a magic trick. Back to this backsliding mess.

Rising in the forefront is anxious depression that mutated to my inner monster smiling with its many teething jaws. Pulling dark means to my limbs to charge a down-forward thrust into myself trying to beat myself down further past the surface sea. This Building voice and need to put myself down; by my own volition, by my own means, and my own willingness to die. 

I ignore my own house door of a philosophical array of abominable discoveries. It may not be wise to put my ear so close to this door nor knock on it and wait for a knock back. I’ve been convinced that if I just pass right through, then my answers will be solved. What a great steep passage behind it must be for me to step up and over its threshold. But I keep knocking on this monstrosity of a door while keeping an ear out for an answer; faith, the detriment truth sealed beyond this closed door. 

I ask in this engulfing grip below, the dark gray shimmer of light dancing on the edge of the sea surface, how could I have existed? What was the toll I could’ve paid so that I might have become whole? What punishment must I endure, what pain must I exchange for it; what is the balancing scale to purchase my completed self. This time I weep against this door, still knocking. Still waiting.

The storm I sat in is still going on above in a muffled distance as I sink down. The weight of me gets to a deep heaviness and deeper I find myself pouring into the core of my problems resting in my piercing, open wounded, and mouthing pit in my heart. Gnawing and grinding are the teeth of my great monster as it huffs like a torquing engine. Its eyes fixated on me. Its back muscles prominently flex its power before the charge at me when it releases that built energy up above to pull me in further.

In the advent of thunder on the lives that leads classic savagery on a trident leash beast of leisure marrying clouds to storms. Soiled and interwoven an assault of illumination on the sky. Power up and lay as a flash but hot like the sun and boiling oceans to then turn earth to shattered glass.  I find myself hitting the ground in a all to quick dive down to the bottom floor.