The observer is alone,
Stuck within a cage of solitude.
Other people, all around him,
Lurid are like dancing shadows.
Does he in this crowd belong?
Can he feel the joy of present?
Will he ever touch these silhouettes
That are dancing all around him?
No.
He is but a dying whimper
Of an age that is forgotten,
Of a species that’s extinct.
Everywhere he goes, he’s useless.
Everything he does is seen by no one.
He’s in a house of glass, alone,
Commotion playing in his yard,
And he’s observing it, the lives of others,
He sees their fire burning wildly,
Their wings that help them step so lightly.
He is slowly realizing,
He is only an observer,
Trapped behind a mask of ice,
Dressed in costume made of lies,
Feet in mud of past mistakes.
Life, love, light to him are distant,
He is son to bitter thoughts,
And he shivers through the nights,
Searching for some lost delight.
He is still, when all are moving,
His head down, when all are high,
He is rot within a field of flowers.
Counting his remaining hours,
The observer waits for death,
But he hopes there’s still redemption
Waiting on the road ahead.
And he prays the day won’t come,
When the grip of his harsh loneliness
Grows too tight for him to bear,
For he knows what happens next:
A knife, a gun, a rifle.
The young skin torn with holes.
Lips curved in bluish smile,
He has finally found salvation.
Sanguine puddles of pure joy,
Warming are the freezing floor.
Eyes that once have cried the seas
Now are gazing at white clouds.
Empty shells they are, in them
Light and tears can be found no more.
Stiffened fingers gripping cold steel,
That is tender like a lover.
One short bang and on the dusty walls behind
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