If at the end of the process I tried
To account for my actions, then I write
This testament, for my life is finite
And people must know what became of light
That showed me the real danger; Parasite,
When all my hopes of parity had dried.
Just as always, we started with promise
By shaking hands and offering hors d’oeuvres.
In all frankness I experienced nerves
Like none other; Oddly when I observed
Their drive, the passion filled me with a verve
Which provided false confidence; flawless.
Continuous laughter kept me relaxed
In a wooden environment; they hold
Onto my arm with a grip of steel; Cold
Greetings from dying bodies, I feel sold
Surrounded by mahogany; unfold
Their meaning – true purpose; I was attacked.
Just as now, my body craved the meaning
And allowed others to fill in the gaps.
Weak, foolish with a soft heart; But perhaps
I somehow allowed the embrace to trap
My direction; cementing in the cracks
With a suffocation; Heavy breathing.
Am I still, only talking to Myself?
After all, this idea of perfection
Is always tainted by the direction
That one chooses to go; For affection
Is granted for not asking the Questions;
It’s a concept that should be on a shelf.
The brightness is an outside perspective
That shows its true colours when you enter.
Selfishness; seemingly in the centre
Offers the chance for a perfect shelter,
But its rotten to the core; December
Was when I stopped being so suggestive.
Different Danny 