Psychopathic Lords wade through the shallows of our collective mind, for no other purpose but to joyfully fathom the abyss of pain. They would love to dance on my grave, but I just walk away, because I realized there will be no more dreams.
There is a time to firmly hold on to the pen and strike with bladed words like a Samurai charging his enemies. A time to live honestly and fearless and deprived of hope, admitting your guilt, admitting all that you did, and worse, perhaps, that you did not. Nobody can explain those things that silently collide in the darkness, forever changing the trajectory of compassion. Amidst the pitch black nothingness an insight passes, gently poking me like a friendly dog's wet nose, a gentle dream, suggesting with vanilla smell and the sound of a mermaids bell that one day even pain will come to an end.
But come here now. Sit down with me by the fire, you fools! And be it only for the sake of tradition, vaguely recalling those distant moments of happiness. Our silhouettes against the dying amber of the autumn sun. Heavy we breath and then we see them, smell them, those green little demons just outside the reach of our minds. Now they are not important anymore, because there is no reason to continue walking while you fall.
Mist rises in the cold light of a full November moon, and finally you let your resistance pass without remorse and pain. Once I used to be an expert for those things that come to us in dreams, and I do not think I was the first who saw the inevitable. Yet I still do hope that never will I see the setting sun without at least a maybe of tears, without at least a glimpse of faith that something could change, one day, before I become the same and like them will indulge in the kill and the hunt and the slaughter of beings and worlds as a game. Never before did I see the shattered pieces of my dreams spread out, sparkling splinters on the ground, and never did I understand the reasons. But now on this cold and misty morning after a full moon night, an apprehension rises within me, hot and heavy as liquid lead, that they might be resurrected, restored in a much bigger, a different and an as yet invisible form.
By the fire by Stefan Thiesen