Hairline Fractures.

Sickened by the anger felt within,

Nausea from a corrupted core.

Self-worth questioned by the self,

Love and hatred on Occam’s edge.

The overbearing weight of right,

flawed perceptions of actions done.

Deigns to reveal the hateful heart

prided on its falsest love.

How painful pride in self can seem;

I, that word which self adores.

Change lives? Or rather yet be

changed.

For time has proven clear enough

the rally cry of dust forlorn,

melancholy graduates from sobs.

Pour forth, anointed tears

into the splintered heart of masks.

The cracks grow deeper, reach within

as folly burns the righteous tasks.

Nailed to desperation’s cross,

a death has come and one is lost.

The meter cares not for form

when function serves to relay

the ruthless message borne within

there are no words where loathing stays,

and cries of why turned sheet white,

beg for falsehood to still delay.

Reality shatters broken wings

and no hope soars before the spring.

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