Whisper

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Images from the inner walls treat my actions as blasphemy. The reasons are invalid and seem more like excuses than footwork. Once you said this was build up, now it feels like hoarding. Hoarding emotions and desperately holding to these feelings that vaporize at the rise of dawn. 

So much could have been accomplished, and so much would be lost. Two sides of one story, two means to one end. It is where it should be, but if you stay seated, it won't be what it has to become.

Rusted potential.
Forgotten value(s).
Parallels.

The sounds, the echoes, the whisper. They all belong to the inner walls. They escaped through the cracks of fear. The gloryhole of my passions. And now they roam the world like voices of sorrow. And now they spread power like a muse on steroids. I may submit, if control is lost.

But there is more to life than this, and some dreams do come true. Just not the ones you're fixated with. Your infatuations will not change the outcome of the truths manifested. If I held your hand, it would only mean we'd both die not alone, but I guess there is no better way to experience the end of the world.

Don't you agree? It was your idea after all. For as I stood there, the light grew bigger, the air got colder, the fear grew stronger and we just admired the downfall. Or was it a birth? We would never know...

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