There is a raw beauty in the writhing and twisting of words on your lips.
Combustion of two souls, not spontaneous but with great effort. The burning of these people’s self, the immolation of their minds; inevitable that things should end this way. How long can a fire sustain?
You are a black hole. An all consuming force that devours me entirely, leaving nothing behind, no trace to be found. Crushed until breathing becomes difficult, hearing distorted, sight blurry. Oblivion is not as silent as one would expect. Nor is it peaceful. The void is full to the brim with unspoken cries and unshed tears. This, this is where you leave me.
I am the tempest and you are the calm, drifting slowly back out to wherever it is that you came from. And I was quiet only while you were here, once the wind that carries you has died out I will rage my sorrow in fits of fury. That is how the storm survives, feeding off the anguish of the troubled waters. That is why the tranquil flees, to find some place more settled.
Mayhem magnificent, glorious chaos; delightful destruction of the mundane, the ordinary, the everyday. Break our constructs, burn down our inhibitions; overwhelm our existence until there is nothing left but bedlam.
Why release the words so carefully captured in gilded cages of ink and college rule? To open the lock with a single whisper; free the demons trapped within solid sentences crafted by hand. Why give voice to the constricted torture; let it live in words set down, never to be heard, and so, never to be felt.