Bad Things.

Bad Things.

Marked by the singularity that is an imposing scar across the frame, a faint reminder of deeds committed. Treason invoked, and the longitude of distance imposed; with a serenade of gospels sung by the druids. Dancing amongst the ruins of the great chapel, kicking the ashes off the ground; stirring the dead and resurrect old habits; it's never the bad things one takes pleasure in nor ownership. Posing as the patron saint, extending kind and worthless words to invoke, compassion? Forgiveness? To be able to look at oneself in the mirror, sleep next to the new beloved, not feel the sickness of falsity of new found happiness. To know those bad things that were done to achieve so called euphoria. Those wicked things that taint the soul and hollow the frame; the burden or is it relief? Look down at the pool of blood, into the vast depths of the abyss, and reach in; find the corpse with the brand. Satisfied? Or it this just the beginning of the end.