Keep the Faith

Under The Limelight.

Complexity, complexity, complexity...
Oh, what shall he do?
Tick. Break that window?
Tock. Bite off his song?
Crack. Watch his inside fall apart and degenerate to a foul pile?
Boom.
He fell... what a pity.
His unsold soul was broken; what a shame. How can he compromise with his devils now?

Poor boy, he tried and tried...

He tried to swallow the sun but got burned. Burned to the ground.
Poor pathetic little boy.


He tried to break history but it crushed and disemboweled him hanging his insides out for the world to see. His bleeding ego dripping on the foreheads of others and seeping to the stencils of their smirks.

They're watching him die and repeating lines from his books, wearing black bars and x's around their vacant eyes adorned by halos of darkness. They've cried away all their feelings; all what was left in these dried hearts was numbness and envy.
They've watch him rise up and up and up till he reached the colorless skies and beyond; he collided with thunder and lightening and lost all those battles where sunrise and sunsets are equal.

He's just an infant at heart crawling away from danger, shying away from bright light; he never knew what he was doing.
When he's told to stay away from the fire, from the blazing flames of his words, what does he do? He reaches out and burns.

And now his body hung in the lines of the books he created as the noose of the shards of icy words and olden compliments dangled loosely after leaving their marks on jagged skin and green edged flesh; history used the noose of its harshness to sweep him off his feet and hang him upside down like the slaughtered animal he was considered. An example; a role model never to be looked up to. Another face to be shoved roughly along with the faces; the masks of the ones that fell. He wasn't alive anymore to writers, journalists, historians; he was pressed from flesh and blood to ink and paper. Just a definition in a book devoured by dust and the hungry mouths of insects and old.

Again, his lifeless body could be seen hovering above the heads of the dry-hearted. An example.
His words fell and cascaded from his insides up their uncaring shoulders and within their ears like nightmarish snowflakes worming into their consciences. The ones that don't exist.

Even though he was just a mere corpse his mouth never stopped moving; singing; whispering softly to the witnesses of his brutally portrayed execution, even with his words seeping like the silvery ink-laced droplets poising his mouth and murdering his tongue, he still sang.

No eye blinked; no hand twitched; no heart mourned. A motionless picture, a painting, that's what this is. A painting; still, radiant and dark at the same time. The erratic splashes of a sadistic artist's paints, along with the darkened deviant strokes, dyed the faces and hallow pupils of the dead within. Dead of heart; dead of soul.
The painted looks, the lousily scribbled on smiles... They were all supposed to wash with guilt and anguish to reveal the rough cut up canvas underneath.
But they didn't; their remorse was supposed to tear the covers and tear down the stone barricading their tears from dropping and burning skin. So the paints would melt away the red and black hues; the color burns blinding their glacial hearts and thaw their petty layers of lies away.
Just let history laugh at his mentally crucified limp body as his veins whiten and the brutally purple bruise begin to surface where his heart belonged; literally beaten on the inside.

History's sneer wiped away the remorse and pain lain in books and papers; it won.
Prejudice and unity scalded the humanity within the remnants of the ones who kept their nails and teeth buried into him fighting not to lose it and lose delicate engravings laced with his ink, worded into their hearts. It poured and rained and bled lies and gray chiseled smiles soaking, suffocating their thoughts, pulling the cloths of blood red darkness over the un-tainted words; the pure sincere remains, the evidence of a soul that cared in this close but broken apart word. Empires disbanded, lives torn, skies separated and hearts shrouded in greed, envy, hate, hate and more hate.

History lies to your face. You don't know who those who are sleeping within their graves, you don't know who won the battle where souls and bodies merged so drastically that hearts and veins tangled and welded that the blood of enemy ad friend intertwined. You run back to history to drink up its tarnished sayings from between the pages of condemned lies and treachery.

But the hung body already left a mark that no laugh or light can take away; a slap on the face of the world; a red sizzling imprint carrying on songs and screams.
No-one gave that nudging humiliating pain he and his peers inflicted any attention, it would have been like admitting that they have hearts, that they feel, they hurt.
It would have been an act more sinister than confessing, revealing the ugly bruised green skin; an act he preformed every night, dissecting his fears and feeding them to the eyes of the hungry, hungry crowds.

Draw, write and blind the sight of the masses. The arts that survived to note the raise of humanity will document and ensure its fall.
His blood rains, rains and rains in the necks of the guilty and lying.
They all died in fair and serenity.
History lulls you to sleep.

Well, he didn't. Oh no, he didn't.

Like a fucking blow to the face, like a fucking twisted jab in the chest it was. Lies, lies, twisted fucking lies they were.

He died in honor? What a disgusting excuse for a cover-up...
It's worse than laughing at a torn mother's face; holding her son's rotting heart...

He died in filth! The texts shriek. He died in filth and shame! How dare he change the minds of millions? He never bled, he never hurt, never murdered; he doesn't deserve the mere title of a hero! He was a lovestruck bumbling fool with his head up in the sky! Fool, fool, fool...
Listen to history, children. Song lyrics don't mean a thing; blows of empty beautiful air; they pass out of your fingers and get woven and tangled within your thoughts. Cold hard facts won't let you down; they last more than faith. They lived on for ages and generations to believe. Cold. Hard. Facts. Reality is better than painful dreams. The ones provided in his disciples' minds and chests beating and pounding against all odds.

Adolescents hung onto his words with all their might fearing of losing grip and... crashing.

Melting crayons were his words; so colorful, so bright, so enticing and velvety shielding and preserving the wasted innocence of their fragile hearts.
He protected them under his wings of insecurity and bandaged feathers.

In the broken shadows under the misty limelight...
Where his end occurred, under the limelight; small and drained; the same crowds stealing every last sense of decency; talking, whispering, mocking him, his life, even his fucking words didn't come out intact from these last attacks on a dead body.

Under the limelight he stood proud, and under it he flaked away...

He'll always let you down, children. History whispers with it's malice crippled smiles and crimson claws. He'll always let you down,
Always.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm not sure about this one...