It's all coming back to me,
like a silent macabre movie
with a twisted sense of humour.
Are you here to accompany me
in this lonesome theater,girl?
Nobody did before, nobody will,
nobody can. Not anymore.
May be you are here to judge me,
like everyone else did.
All those procrastinators in their comfort zone,
those hypocrites in their little big glass-house.
Those saints! who stripped my soul
and purged my blasphemous mind
with their capsules and needles.
They judged my ticks, my whims,
my nightmare as well as my dreams.
And damned me to this living hell.
You say you escort the brave and the bold,
those who taste the sword,
after wielding the same.
I don't know if I was brave.
I just know my battle has come to an end.
Like the ending credits of the movie.
Perhaps when you stop judging me,
you can come find me waiting
on the backseat of my hearse.
Drip drip drip, I keep counting.
YOU ARE READING
PENULTIMATE
RastgeleScars are permanent. When they pile up on the soul, the soul seeks release. Before taking that last leap from the cliff it looks back...for the last time.
