Pushing forward a bit, the thread snaps its weave--
So delicate its frame is, and light and soft and full of
What it could be.
Stabbing the hand with the needle, all that comes out
Was the blood formed from years of dissapointment.
Garnishing the days and nights and life of decades untold
And untrue, the author himself acknowledges the lies of the story.
Pricking and prodding, draping and obfuscating.
All days are meaningless in their conception.
Art is just a tool, the man is just a figment, the life but a story
Untold and untrue, of lies and petty-seeking, of darkness and absurdity.
Vile and stark, mild but seething, this story that
Has no end but bitterness that may last from its conception.
