The Words That Shalt Not Leave My Lips:
Quiet. All is quiet on the western front.
The house is empty – lights out in fear of mirrors.
When such a cage can rattle it’s own bars.
When such a beast hath no beauty.
Wicked witch, and spell itself entwined.
The carcass is only half spent.
What is the street value of a pound of flesh?
Craving such fancies as lust, more than feeling the experience of lust itself.
Merely wanting to be desired.
Lights off. Mirrors dark.
No one is home to see the cage I have wrought.
Crafted with care by my own two hands.
What use is strength in the realm of desire?
What help is intellect in the land of lust?
He who rings the bell to signal virtue is no better than he who hides his face behind a mask.
The lights are off.
No one is home.
The mirrors cannot tell your story.
Picking at the scars of yesteryear.
A time when you threw yourself at the world with wildest abandon!
Bereft of care!
The scars tell your story. As clear as the tattoo on your arm sings of the past.
Your prison is your chapel.
Your chapel is your prison.
Immutable form.
Forms immutable resolve.
The lights are off.
No one is home.
No mirrors left to tell the truth in the darkness.
Who would want such a thing?
Truth is as shapeless as the word that crafts it.
All is quiet on the western front.
The trenches are silent, scars invisible, stories trapped at a mere murmur.
This is the body you have been given.
This is the loneliness of that harkened future.
A tale as old as time.
A song as soft as silk.
“I am lonely.”
Silence thereafter.
