"my best years behind me, felt in this horrible afterthought,
i can never unsee the writing in blood on the cool tiled wall,
unseen by all else, as i collapse-
writhing, unsteady in entropy,
and eroded under the past and the moon,
i never knew either to be this hollow
i crawl onward in search of lost time
(who i am)
i am a blackguard and in no way special
(what i was)
i was apart, contented
(what i've lost)
i've lost the substance of times resplendent
(and what i've become)
weighted and made faint by years of erosion
in search of lost time"


Falling victim to conscience in a city of strangers
I plunged too far, too fast, I met my maker.
My face was sunken and my body bent double
as I gazed at myself with hatred and humbled I grinned
and let myself into places stepped some long time before
I knew the scent and I knew the anger I saw the blood on the walls saying:

"Sweet glory, look where we are again,
back to the broken land"
Some were chosen but "we" are one in the same
fueled by nature, broken on high steeples of shame.
Life seemed hollow, but now I'm finding relief.

Rejected

I was simply yearning for the end, clarity, or at least a little relief.
The lights gone shallow, and now I'm haunted by thieves

Defected

I guess it's just a violent waste of time and I'm so afraid. (Introspections left me crawling blind)
I've lost myself in my hatred and shame,
acting on my worst inhibitions I've come to accept strange superstitions.
Come to terms with sinful providence.
A conscience clearer my judgement remains always a waste, unbroken, alone.

Who I am, what I was, what I've lost, and what I've become: nothing.