By the dark waters
Should he do it, he wondered then,
Gazing at the melting shapes
That whisper with vicious intent
From the blindness of the cold water,
The depths of which,
Subvert his inner desire,
Shattering dark bent
Distortions,
Whispering, ever so softly,
Kissing his will away
Should he do it, the seduction of eternity,
Ripping his promises into shreds of
Burnt paper
Twisting his truths into
Nests of poisoned lies,
That dig roots inside of him,
And he wondered if he should do it,
Swirls of sound echo in the water,
Half remembered faces plastered against the vibrant surface,
Half forgotten demons scrap sharp claws on the circling madness inside his mind,
And half felt pain, as he wonders
Should he do it, distant dreams stay at bay,
Distant from his mind,
As he washes his soul deep into the core of doubt,
The question filling his wounds,
Making him void,
Inscriptions in a pattern of a time that fades in the distance,
His past is kept at bay well,
And the distance stretches ever on,
Makes him oblivious of recollection,
The liquid shadows are his only vague memories
Each one a confusing riddle that whispers so softly,
Conscience as light as shadows
The turmoil of questions that burn and lick the waters,
The flames seek peace in the darkness
Should he do it, the waters open silent whispering mouths,
Ever so softly,
He wonders if he should do it.
Murky dusty phantoms that crawl the levels of darkness
Spirals of liquid erase themselves as they descend,
Rings of wavy water
Encircle their blind invitation,
Exposing sweet oblivion,
And bareness of ideals,
His smooth hands cover his eyes,
Making the waters real in the absolute darkness of him
Constantly taming his desire to live
Eager to know, filling his deserted need for something,
Trying to protect his lack of reality,
He wonders if he should do it,
And the waters slide,
Hidden whispering voices secure in the darkness,
Cutting the cord,
The rotting cord that links him to whatever image he had,
Whatever voices sing in his ears, safely kept by the unstable liquid,
Providing shelter, with the subtle net of soft trembling whispers.
In this unholy privacy, where his secrets chant from the depths, he wondered,
And declared peace to his question,
Letting the strings of sound dance all over the waters,
Spilling all over his body,
Enhanced by the rhythmic absence of light,
Shifting, shifting ever on,
He decided not to do it,
And the dark waters kept his spirit sure,
And as he slept,
The waters provided no dreams,
His sleep was only filled with the fluid dark currents
That touched him with soft hands,
And whatever mysteries he poured unto the waters,
Where lost for us, in the realm of the dark waters.
