I call upon the past in memory of the future. I call upon blind eyes to see past the blockades of history. In the barrage of fiery torrents I feel the sting of your hands against endings of raw emotion. Bring forth a desire of such intimacy it drives every ounce of strength from this life. Like a candle in the dark, with dancing shadows ever at the change, leaving only remnant ashes in the black abyss as it fades away. One more chance, as from falling into a never past silver winds beckoning for more than just a single please, ignite what passion simply remains from screaming corners of the pleasurable mind. Just one more chance, for the light behind these soulless eyes, and the vanishing flame inside my swollen heart. I'll channel every thought into the perspective of the mind, every second to the mending of the lost times, and every thought to the one I see in imperfection bask as thought they were.

I'm trapped within my mind, a hollow tunnel with no light to follow, only a wind of snowy blades cutting deep into my mind's perspective. All but haunting faces, and daunting voices mark the inner walls of my mind, why won't they just vanish into the void of my soul? What shall this make me into, what will the molds of time produce...the next walking disaster?

Pelting rain beats against my pale skin, every drop a fist of an egoistic past, every blow taken to my mental body. And in the rain I situate, mesmerized by my past character, watching the life I had once occupied through hazing eyes. Like a star in my own debut, damned to watch the same review until times end. Repeating every scene with such excruciating detail, bring pain to every cell that lives within a vessel like I. Even after the curtains close, sets a veil over my performance, I am forced to continue my story...retold. Over and over...I drone, like a dance to a never-ending song. The song of creature so sadistic, though stitched of grace, able to fabricate such sweet aromas of luring perfumes. A tide of such aspiration, the sound of a violinist. A violinist pained but never impedes. Engaging in melody of delicate precision of grace and sorrow, intertwined. Though too many years of bleeding fingers he never recedes, always playing to my act. Why do I continue with no audience to please, the illumination bright but then uncaring. What drives me on?
With such determination I begin to wonder what is my part in life, is it naught but an over-rated act? Like a ballerina fallen from grace, dressed in an attire of battered satin. Upon her knees she gapes to the illusory audience, to only receive the disappointed eyes of hollow degrees. They ask so much, it drives the body to such extents...It's just a dance, its just another play...

A play that dies at last she sees on what observes. A lonely man shaded in the folds of darkness shroud, watching the obsessive dancer drone. With such infectious pride he takes this human as his own, 'his' daughter. But we all know, now as well as he, every act must have its end. When the solitary beauty dressed in the rags of necessities, pink tatters of a gracious costume, tears the delicate slippers from her feet. And lays down for one more eternal slumber. And what is a finale with out is accompanying music? A single lingering applaud, like a deathly lullaby. The song that surfaces in the most desperate of times, as well can be heard underneath the strings of the violin, the blood stained wires of one mans life.
The last note played, the violinist can lay down his instrument, throw it from his suffering hands, to return to whence he came. And to the single audience, a long and lonely walk home to an empty house. Past the dying lights, the dreary beat of the rhythmic ocean, and under the ivory moon. Into his dwelling he resides, inhabiting the perpetual light, his story begins...

"Under the watchful eye of a burning candle, beneath the shimmering cinders of a hopeless flame, I mourn of the simplest of things. I mourn of what I once took for granted. I no longer live the undemanding pleasures of a ritualistic life. I am no longer blessed with the detail of the rising sun or the privilege of human publicity. Always lost in grief-stitched thought, oblivious to all but the self sought reflection of stone cold visage.
Under the moonlight he waits concealed in the drapes of human fear and pure temptation. Such a lucid hold on reality, so free from the ties of sanity, no pride in immortality without a soul to save. Walking through the hells gate, into the flames of deceit, I remark is so suddenly nothing compared to promenade in damnation in a world you'll out live..."