Roaring Realm

The bitterness sticks like glue,
Sews on to the better halves of ourselves;
Vessels to misery,
An eerie entertainment;
Riding out dark acts until it becomes the death of us.
Funny,
How we are the weavers of our own fate,
A delicate gold string,
Yet we choose to hang each another with it,
WE ARE OUR OWN EXCECUTIONERS
Adding insult to injury.

I pine to break this sentence,
To chop it into hideous remains;
Necessity overkill,
Hyperbolic rush,
Perfect insanity;
Oh, the lengths I'll go for you
To get back where we so righteously belong.
I'll forsake the very ground,
Relinquish my boundless pride.

The virus of complication grows nearer
With every day we lay to waste.
This isn't a game anymore;
Love as we know it is endangered,
Jeopardized.

A species that deserves to thrive.

What say you?
Shall we dissipate disappointment?
Loosen the noose of our mistakes?
Or forever remain idle
In this roaring realm of the broken and ashamed?

2012 Vincent Cuccolo