My world is a cold one, full of half trues, half passions, and half the carbs.
I woke one day to find myself in a realm of self doubt and creative decay, moral cavities, and the infinite lack of an upright spine after the weight of love had powdered my vertebrae.
I don't know how long its been, there is no light here, there is no sound, only biting insanity and silent screams.
Ocassionally I'm asked to brave the bullshit, to dig out of my hole, bite through my chains ... or my arms whichever gives first, and I'm clad with a chip on my shoulder, a sardonic wit and a rapier tongue
but it offers as much protection as a loincloth and gladius against a ravenous pride of lions.
The colleseum demands blood.
My blood.
My failure.
And I live to dissapoint.
You rabble may boo me, may fling your refuse and demand my execution, but admit it
You
All
Love
To
Hate
Me.
And when I finally fall to the hail of arrows, the back-knife, or the crushing despair-
The moment will be that much sweeter.
Your cheers will be even more thunderous.
When I slump slowly to my knees... on that dirt throne of nowhere champions.
As my hands grasp lovingly for that eternal blue
and my lungs let go of that last ephemeral breath
I will not hear the roars of the victor
the jeers of the mob
the adulation of the nobles above the muck-
I will hear my prayer for perfection
perfection in contentment uttered eons ago.
my fingers will close around the unatainable
and there I will die
smiling face down in the field of blood-stained dirt-washed heroes.
Content and perfect.
