Thursday, September 4, 2008

vérité numéro quatre. (truth number four.)

the red brick mansion with its carefully laid bricks all in perfect place.
a foundation of shame and hate, support beams of reverberating disgrace.
lies made of sheet rock walls threaten to seal your fate.
no way in, but a trecherous warzone out.
beds are cold steel slabs with dilapidated blankets made of jaded hope.
the white picket fence is but a joke.
the perception of the two car garage deserves a second glance, for it is unhinged within.
floor beams bowed, but an areal rug covers the cracking of the seams.
tear stained pillows soak the pain.
the cookie cutter family undoubtedly feels the heat, though never spoken.
the erie night's silence shredded by soul clinching screams.
the violent suffication imprisons your spirit and steals your dignity.
the value of self worth diminished to the size of a mustard seed.
you never want to wake, as your dreams are the soul means of escape.
the bricks all soaked in blood of its victims, thus forever tattooed on your forehead; a branded vessel of hate.
the completion of a circle finds karma abound, while justice flew away like a bird on that cold rainy night.
still undead, the sword of evil has one more stab to the heart.
the final rejection, a beacon of hope where freedom and the soul elope.
the last few bricks shattered and defaced, no longer lying in wait for its prey.
never forgotten, lying in its place, a survivor's truth.
gone in haste was his fierceful hate, the reign of terror now displaced.
permenate are the scars, made with horrid distaste.
present are the spell binding feelings of never surrendering feelings.