It's over...
...And when it's all said and done, what is he any more? Nothing but an empty, bitter, jealous shell. A cracked mirror to give a burnished reflection of better days.
Mute in solitude and company, a weathered voice that passes vengeful but impotent judgement, his tongue a skeletal hand, scratching at the door, begging to be let inside in vain. He is a fallen idol, a cracked rock, a paragon of tired and passionless inertia bought to his knees years too late, and only now finding that he never really did anything at all.
He is redundant and retired, faded like the oldest of inks, his brighter core a black lead mass like a dead star condemned to forever float through a bleak sky.
He is still at the starting block, although the race is already run.
His are the most insipid of platitudes, the most rampant of bromides and banalities. His desperate pleadings for love show his utter lack of anything approaching a soul, they betray the gutted, raped slough that is his spirit.
He is vacant, defunct, and exceptionable, but there is a spark inside.
Like the tip of a cigarette, burning on a rimed winters night, a coruscation of recalcitrant defiance as he refuses to be dragged past his lowest ebb.
The will to rebuild and repair his razed personality is still within him, not yet quashed by the injustices wreaked upon him. Jigsaw like, he will manufacture a new chitin shell against all hurts and from within this mollusc like space secrete a pearl around the sand grain of his contumacy. A new nacre like personality.
He is become a shining sun once again.
---
Just showing off my vocabulary
...And when it's all said and done, what is he any more? Nothing but an empty, bitter, jealous shell. A cracked mirror to give a burnished reflection of better days.
Mute in solitude and company, a weathered voice that passes vengeful but impotent judgement, his tongue a skeletal hand, scratching at the door, begging to be let inside in vain. He is a fallen idol, a cracked rock, a paragon of tired and passionless inertia bought to his knees years too late, and only now finding that he never really did anything at all.
He is redundant and retired, faded like the oldest of inks, his brighter core a black lead mass like a dead star condemned to forever float through a bleak sky.
He is still at the starting block, although the race is already run.
His are the most insipid of platitudes, the most rampant of bromides and banalities. His desperate pleadings for love show his utter lack of anything approaching a soul, they betray the gutted, raped slough that is his spirit.
He is vacant, defunct, and exceptionable, but there is a spark inside.
Like the tip of a cigarette, burning on a rimed winters night, a coruscation of recalcitrant defiance as he refuses to be dragged past his lowest ebb.
The will to rebuild and repair his razed personality is still within him, not yet quashed by the injustices wreaked upon him. Jigsaw like, he will manufacture a new chitin shell against all hurts and from within this mollusc like space secrete a pearl around the sand grain of his contumacy. A new nacre like personality.
He is become a shining sun once again.
---
Just showing off my vocabulary
6underground:
I'm jealous at your vocabulary skills. Heck, I'm jealous because you can spell the word and I can't! I had to copy and paste it! lmao