Entry 3: Here

The well deep and without end shit a walking corpse confused. From the side, a boy watched and screamed. The days numbered, sang by as a song whistling through trees. He sat beneath them, wrinkle faced, and spake in disgusting tones. Shackles, wear them well boy, autonomous and beautiful once.

Riddles, riddles all around him puzzles to confound. Wondering were he not to breathe would it be any different. Shifting lights frolic about his form, a telling. Stills to a rustle, A gaze to bushes shaking barely still. A tremor, an insight unfolding if looked into. The bare skin of knowledge, colorless and present.

Boys want to be their fathers, abashed. A boy to a man, spitting and shifting, glaring. The man poses grotesquely statuesque. To the boy he threatens and shakes, timid but serious. Beating his chest the boy rose scared and ready.

What is it you fear man but me? What is it you fear?

What is it you hear man but me? What is it you hear?

What is it you hold man but me? What is it you hold?

What is it that I am if not me? What is it you seek?

The quelling of one storm invites another, with conditions ripe for. The beating of one heart draws another near, even in dark. The question is not should he hate, but should he aim it. Should he ever aim it, he couldn't bear to watch, no.

A boy to a man, stomping and screaming with rage. Emotions made the boy weak and jaded so he lost them. Grew up and put his other foot on the ground. Took a breath and knew then a boy's strife to becoming a man.

Time won't stop, watchers won't watch...

Boys grow to men consumed with paying homage. Their past is irrelevant but they have not the knowledge. Men kill men to gain, oh what calamity. All they see is property, infamy, and progeny.. It's insanity. All they see is love, loyalty, and antagony. The amalgam of which makes slaves of neighbors to be.

All they see is butcher now and futures will be free.. What beautiful irony.

Futures come to boys, to men, and glow they do in light. Yet still not free, these power trees that keep away the night. Still taxed and fact that nothing changes, nothing’s better still. Those boys had grown to men who traded freedom for the thrill. That boy who rang his glory in the face of man and spit. Was now the very steam that powered engines made of shit. Control and chaos hand in hand would usher in new light. Though taxed and watched, the watchers botched the plans to sneak the fight. So broadcast live and watched in numbers children died in droves. On screen, obscene and violent scenes would fill the treasured troves. On things in nature warring helpless, spinning into form. Conditions sought for years would cause the wanting waves to storm.

If life's a castle, love is moated, drowning those too near. All willing parties hold the wall and brace themselves in fear. As blankets handed out would be the first to burn with fire. All around the boy would hold him dear and fret to reconspire.

All around the boy would see those gathered burnt and humble still. All around the boy would call those to the front he would have kill. All around the boy would take a fire straight into the sky. Almost all that he had lived through taught him what it meant to die.

Gather did he to his forces ever quickened guile. A ghost, he walked amidst his armies shouting hatred all the while. A phantom welcomed into ranks of many as the lead. To kill and crown or wear the scars of battle was a need.

To pass the years the world would play a game within its realm. As man birthed fire, let us see what he does at the helm.

Two thousand on, as written down, he kills his brothers still. Some for profit, some for shame, and others just to feel.

A boy stands lonely, crying for his brothers draped in ash. A boom stills time and bloods his ears, his world comes to a crash. He feels a burning in his chest and thinks to check his heart.

His hand pulls back as eyes stare down to see the spilling start.

Blood seems nothing but water when seen in quantity. All that mental walls can't hold will be antinomy. All that brothers pray for together is only temporary. All that we do here we say echoes in all their memory. All that we do now will define us if we all let it. All that we are here we must swear to never forget it. All that we are here is what holds us all to the tether. All that we can do is build houses to best the weather. All that we can do is build fires to stay the cold. All that we can do is not everything we were told. All that we can be is not only in growing old. All that we can be doesn't mean it has to be sold.

Man reverts to boy in the image of his forefathers. Man wills to destroy his very image and all the bothers. Many wear crowns too heavy for one to hold. The many overthrow and the system begins to fold.

Wealth over family again the cycle is reborn. Wealth whoring infamy the time of life in lorn. Constant is the energy that watches it again. Holding everything together bleeding fire from within. A single light walks the sky the same as it has always been. As it saw the rise of beasts it soon shall see the fall of men.

They hold eachother tight as nations fall and slaves are made of boys. Their fathers cut and bled before them all in mass to foster toys. To walk the endless walk of servitude is not a life to live. Those taken and survived know take cannot come without give.

A hunger in a boy who's leashed and rocking as they rest. A fire from the ground creeps up his legs into his chest.

He turns to see his mother as she's taken from the line. Another of the many he thought must be the design.

Shaking in the rain a boy stands staring through things. All those looking on see nothing he sees as true things. All those peering eyes see only what they can hold to. All those in disguise know seeing means seeing into. All those other sheep there were doing what they're supposed to. Everything around him was falling apart as want do.

All things given shape can be reshaped in an instant. All men that exist and rule started as infants. All love given is something that can be taken. Forced or suggested, free-will can be a break-in. All things known as suggestive can be mistaken. All things given in just, can be forsaken.

Hold to the image of.. A carrier cant usher love.. known. The sky wouldn't open up for the lonely oh if only. The life of a whore, conflicted. Forced or opened the door, what stricken.. if she doesn't feel anymore.

Carry heavy they do, the weight of many too few. The most of all that we are, had we not pushed it so far. He sits alone at the bar, comment on comment ajar, agape his jaw and remissed, you're really living like this? Then what is all of it worth? Where was the joy in your birth?

Reverted to boy as he spake.. The forsaken of you I shall take.

-Solace in constant speaks irrevocably of a person. The adaptation of fear is a new mistress in which some condone.

-Said images and writings just or no feed these conjured delusions. Masses weap for fallen without names.

A boy to a man, spitting and shifting, glaring. What rights have we if they can be taken by any or many? Are they not then privileges? Are we not then owned? When we know nothing of our creators or purpose.. Is our love then untrue, as without the knowledge of implies ignorance or bias?

We are to feel and be felt, but our emotions confuse and confound us. We are to paint pictures of all that we can imagine, but we are missing half of the colors.

We are quite simply.. Here.