Oh I'm singin'...

"I get so distracted by some people's reactions that I don't see my own faults for what they are. At times it's so self destructive, with no intent or motive, but behind this emotion, there lies a sensible heart..."

There's some fights within yourself you find out that you just cannot win...

I hope I gave you at least one real moment of magic in your life. I know those moments are oh so hard to find. I can't craft the subtly of that.

The stillness of that moment when we looked up at the stars lingers in a part of my soul that I want to keep. I may not always touch it, but I know for certain its there. I was so cold.

This all could be part of this thing I've been saying lately. "I want to be a guy with secrets." I want to be that guy who knows how to keep some things to himself. There's a practicality in that. Not only do I get to save you from some of the useless and foolish things I'm prone to say sometimes, but I also get to own the memories that keep me alive. It's really hard to do. I like to talk. So do a lot of other people. The thrill of sharing with someone is worth the risk of losing your treasured instance.

It's a funny thing when memory runs through one's veins. Maybe that's what makes us different. It's not blood we shed when we're pierced. It's pure recollection resting beneath our skin. That silence is so precious to me. We can't taint it with the noise of this world. The core of a man so far down that the movement of violence would seek to finish is what we'll guard with our lives. When it passes, so do our souls.

"There in the dark the truth of it is we're all so afraid to be quiet as the weight of mystery presses in on us. But there are some things you and I are just not meant to know. Can we just stop to wonder that we're here at all?" In all truth. I just want to go back to that firefly field just one more time so I know that it's real. I don't want to see what I've seen since then. I don't want to know how the story ends. I just want to live in that moment forever.

In some ways we always will.

"I get so distracted by some people's reactions that I don't see my own faults for what they are. At times it's so self destructive, with no intent or motive, but behind this emotion, there lies a sensible heart..."

This ain't about all the friends you made, but the graffiti they write on your grave...

And just like that, the headlights shut off. Your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness around you. Your brow is damp from the thick moisture in the air. The promise of summer storms bring that sweet weight to the air as it fills your lungs. Lifting your eyes to behold the vast iron gate set before you, you look beyond to the garden of the dead stretching on for miles. That's when you hear the clicking.

Behind you, a morose skeleton crew begins to form. Where did they all come from? Dressed all in black, you catch brief glimpses of the faces hidden beneath their deep hoods. Are their eyes glowing, or is it the subtle glow of the city to the west? On each of their backs protrudes a large metal turn key much like those wind up toy soldiers you've seen in the department store windows. Slowly, painfully, the keys are turning, grinding, clicking, tightening their grip on the insides of each as the damned toys deliberately move towards the necropolis before you. In each of their hands hangs an aerosol can.

You look around and all the faces behind you each carry the same weight. Amidst the silent crowd you can notice an intoxicating mix of energy and malice. They are familiar to you. In fact, you've seen the streets they walk down each night. You've paced beside their corpses as they shamble from door to door. Any given day, such a display would frighten you, but here the fog you can share their anxiety.

Suddenly, a very different clicking joins the totality.  Hands begin to shake, arms begin the convulse, limbs flail up and down. Up and down, up and down, up and down. The rattle of their pigmented acrylics vibrate through the damp earth pulsating with the all of the astringency and vitriol of the old world. Toys shake their fists in unison cursing every vault, every sepulcher, every ossuary in the derelict boneyard before you. This deafening chorus rises through the air, you can feel the nervous thump, thump, thump deep set in your chest.Everything inside you ripples in waves both dour and resolved. Can the soul scream? No this time it whispers.

And all at once, the clicking stops.

Somewhere in the stillness behind you a voice (is it your own?) murmurs in a barely audible tone, "It's time." That's when the rain starts...

"You jump the fence and open the gate, and then begins the race.
Watch them as they march to fate, the toys flood in to take their place,
Eager hands no more will wait, throats like graves, ears full of grace.
Switch them on, expose the hate, ultraviolet across your face.

Silence can have no place here, scrawl your mantra down each row.
Breathe in your pain, and nurse your fear, let the night extol your woe.
Beyond the the strings of the puppeteer, tell me of the things you know.
Beyond the madness you hold dear, tell me all things you don't.

A graveyard has the best laid floor plan, It's measured in it's plots.
How fruitless is it to bury a man and hide his soul for naught?

Dance in the grave as fast as you can, a soul cannot be stopped.
One's own life is too short a span to fight for what is lost.

Lay beside a blank gravestone and lay aside restraint.
Wake the dead with some great sound and some bright spray paint.
The stories they will go around, the'll say we were a day too late.
For those who search it will be found. They'll know the truth beyond the gate.

It will happen in the middle of the night, it'll happen very late.
They'll whisper of our secret fight, of our time inside the gate.
It will paint the underbelly of the kingdom light, of everyone who takes the bait.
Why do you weep for those in the night? Good things come to those wait.

Close your eyes as you lay down your head and watch our old souls drift
Keep your sorrow on a silver thread, keep your grief abreast.
All you do won't insult the dead when you desecrate their rest
They are gone, they are blessed. They won't ever know the difference..."

Your dirty work completed, you and your silent crew turn from the graves you've painted.That's when the cogs start turning. That's when the gears commence their grinding. That's when the clicking begins again. You swear you can hear sirens begin to wail in the distance...

"I get so distracted by some people's reactions that I don't see my own faults for what they are. At times it's so self destructive, with no intent or motive, but behind this emotion, there lies a sensible heart..."