Skin
dancing in our dying skin.
shell of all we could have been.
every thought and every prayer.
just a way we all prepare.
motions in futility.
can't escape mortality.
rite of passage, rite of pain.
dance the dance, bring the rain.
wash away all our sins.
blood and bones, hearts and skins.
ash and ashes, touch and sight.
burned by flashes, blind by light.
taste the mother, earth and sky.
one day soon, we all will die.
can't see darkness closing in.
lost in lust of flesh and skin.
lost in cloth of love we claim.
lost in clothes of power, fame.
all will die, all will fade.
fallen, felled, dried, decayed.
ruin, tomb, empty grave.
mindless scream, rant and rave.
fate is fate, past won't lie.
judgment comes, breathe a sigh.
ice and rain, river, sea.
dirt, stone, root and tree.
storm and gust, gale, turn.
flame, torch, coal and burn.
shadow, darkness, and all the night.
sunshine, daylight, and all the bright.
hearts of all that have come before,
are lined up now outside our door.
Every attempt we make is met with disdain.
Mortals striving to reach beyond our abilities.
The husk of our anatomy reeks of our failure.
Pitiful creatures laughed at by laws beyond our comprehension.
We strive so hard to live forever because we're afraid that all we have is the here and now.
We want so badly to ruin a balance we refuse to admit exists.
The more we grow, the less we will be able to see of ourselves.
We seek to spread beyond our means.
You have lost your children along the way because they are longing for a life that no longer exists.
Life is not life, but a dead thing of hollow values and shallow pools of substance and materialism.
Where has the honor gone?
What has become of the price for life?
We wander aimlessly because the path of our ancestors is mauled by the feet of so many humans.
The world has been discovered.
The barbaric has been slain.
Tradition is now a burden pressed upon those who do not care and lacking for those who actually want it.
Where are the rites of passage?
Where are the trials of adulthood?
Why have challenges of survival become those of monetary gain?
We sit in our chairs, at our glowing screens, and prove to anonymous masses that somehow we are better than people who no longer have faces.
Our dreams of spiritual journeys play out in boxes before us, like minions at our feet.
We lord over those we deem less because it is blasphemy to suggest that we too are nothing.
We huddle in our caves of shiny glass and polished stone.
We wield fire because we can but it no longer keeps us warm or wards away the darkness.
We swell and burst inside our own skin for the sheer loneliness of our existence.
We seek comfort in so many dead things, thinking that if we move quickly from one to the other, we can place a greater distance between ourselves and the day we are forced to admit the truth.
All purpose has been removed from our lives.
Some accept it so readily that they no longer even strive to remember that they're supposed to have one.
We have no keepers of truth because the truth is as hollow as the rest.
There were giants once in our world.
We walked among them because we counted ourselves among them.
But that has all faded away.
We have grown so confident in our superiority that our size is the only one we see.
We ache to conquer the only great marvels that remain.
We quiver at the thought of ripping the world apart at the seams just so we can see how it has been sewn together and what it holds inside.
The idea that we are meant to live with the world has been betrayed and cast aside for the demanded right to live on the world and in it and to squeeze it dry.
No one kills us but ourselves.
We no longer even fight the idea unless it is action committed directly on our skin.
Children and youth who should hold purpose, who should dream and grow in a world that has been built large enough for them to stretch their limbs, have been tied down.
Everything is upside down as we build our foundations upon those we should be building under.
The lashes tearing our flesh strike to our hearts as we die inside a swirl of never ending circles and stories lacking values and purpose.
Our bodies rot from the inside out, our decaying skin held together by the dying hope that there is more in the world that the path our feet have been nailed to.
Our hearts are bitter.
Our minds are weak.
And dreams are things we can never remember because we have learned there is no point in holding onto them.
The lies we live have sewn our mortal skin together and we fear it is only the lies that are keeping us alive.
This husk of our existence is brittle and we are so scared that we cannot live without it that we do not dare to move for fear of it shattering.
But all play a part.
That is the point of our skin.
Our purpose is pointless because it is worn for a world that has faded away but we wear it still because purpose has become our truth.
The skin is dying.
We wear it while we can.
We live in a cold world because we must and dance for pittance because we don't know how long the play will last and we cannot leave until we are done.
Because life is the nightmare everyone must dream between one death and the next.
shell of all we could have been.
every thought and every prayer.
just a way we all prepare.
motions in futility.
can't escape mortality.
rite of passage, rite of pain.
dance the dance, bring the rain.
wash away all our sins.
blood and bones, hearts and skins.
ash and ashes, touch and sight.
burned by flashes, blind by light.
taste the mother, earth and sky.
one day soon, we all will die.
can't see darkness closing in.
lost in lust of flesh and skin.
lost in cloth of love we claim.
lost in clothes of power, fame.
all will die, all will fade.
fallen, felled, dried, decayed.
ruin, tomb, empty grave.
mindless scream, rant and rave.
fate is fate, past won't lie.
judgment comes, breathe a sigh.
ice and rain, river, sea.
dirt, stone, root and tree.
storm and gust, gale, turn.
flame, torch, coal and burn.
shadow, darkness, and all the night.
sunshine, daylight, and all the bright.
hearts of all that have come before,
are lined up now outside our door.
Every attempt we make is met with disdain.
Mortals striving to reach beyond our abilities.
The husk of our anatomy reeks of our failure.
Pitiful creatures laughed at by laws beyond our comprehension.
We strive so hard to live forever because we're afraid that all we have is the here and now.
We want so badly to ruin a balance we refuse to admit exists.
The more we grow, the less we will be able to see of ourselves.
We seek to spread beyond our means.
You have lost your children along the way because they are longing for a life that no longer exists.
Life is not life, but a dead thing of hollow values and shallow pools of substance and materialism.
Where has the honor gone?
What has become of the price for life?
We wander aimlessly because the path of our ancestors is mauled by the feet of so many humans.
The world has been discovered.
The barbaric has been slain.
Tradition is now a burden pressed upon those who do not care and lacking for those who actually want it.
Where are the rites of passage?
Where are the trials of adulthood?
Why have challenges of survival become those of monetary gain?
We sit in our chairs, at our glowing screens, and prove to anonymous masses that somehow we are better than people who no longer have faces.
Our dreams of spiritual journeys play out in boxes before us, like minions at our feet.
We lord over those we deem less because it is blasphemy to suggest that we too are nothing.
We huddle in our caves of shiny glass and polished stone.
We wield fire because we can but it no longer keeps us warm or wards away the darkness.
We swell and burst inside our own skin for the sheer loneliness of our existence.
We seek comfort in so many dead things, thinking that if we move quickly from one to the other, we can place a greater distance between ourselves and the day we are forced to admit the truth.
All purpose has been removed from our lives.
Some accept it so readily that they no longer even strive to remember that they're supposed to have one.
We have no keepers of truth because the truth is as hollow as the rest.
There were giants once in our world.
We walked among them because we counted ourselves among them.
But that has all faded away.
We have grown so confident in our superiority that our size is the only one we see.
We ache to conquer the only great marvels that remain.
We quiver at the thought of ripping the world apart at the seams just so we can see how it has been sewn together and what it holds inside.
The idea that we are meant to live with the world has been betrayed and cast aside for the demanded right to live on the world and in it and to squeeze it dry.
No one kills us but ourselves.
We no longer even fight the idea unless it is action committed directly on our skin.
Children and youth who should hold purpose, who should dream and grow in a world that has been built large enough for them to stretch their limbs, have been tied down.
Everything is upside down as we build our foundations upon those we should be building under.
The lashes tearing our flesh strike to our hearts as we die inside a swirl of never ending circles and stories lacking values and purpose.
Our bodies rot from the inside out, our decaying skin held together by the dying hope that there is more in the world that the path our feet have been nailed to.
Our hearts are bitter.
Our minds are weak.
And dreams are things we can never remember because we have learned there is no point in holding onto them.
The lies we live have sewn our mortal skin together and we fear it is only the lies that are keeping us alive.
This husk of our existence is brittle and we are so scared that we cannot live without it that we do not dare to move for fear of it shattering.
But all play a part.
That is the point of our skin.
Our purpose is pointless because it is worn for a world that has faded away but we wear it still because purpose has become our truth.
The skin is dying.
We wear it while we can.
We live in a cold world because we must and dance for pittance because we don't know how long the play will last and we cannot leave until we are done.
Because life is the nightmare everyone must dream between one death and the next.
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