Born at Twilight

June 3, 2012
By rocky999 BRONZE, Sheboygan, Wisconsin
rocky999 BRONZE, Sheboygan, Wisconsin
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Ashes tainted ashes,
and we all fell down.
Ashes formed ashes,
And our paradox was awoken.

The paradox is a candidate of a Heaven,
and embroidered by a He**.
The paradox is awoken beyond lively,
which on earth is destined to return dead.

The paradox is bound to mortality,
even as it forgets and lives like it can never die.
The paradox is always sight,
though the paradox is perpetually blind.

The paradox is humane,
because the paradox is a lie.
The paradox is always dreaming,
which travels to the other side and reveals the doppelganger within one body.

The paradox is deceived and forsaken,
even when the paradox thinks it is perfect and passion.
The paradox is hidden and locked within a rusted though prison cell,
fated to the curse of it’s own kind.

The paradox is awake,
even as it takes it’s last breath,
and as the paradox wonders aimlessly past the valley of the shadow of death,
to gravitate its way into it’s creator and homeland.

The paradox plays dictator,
but the paradox has an open-mind.
The paradox is in love,
though it’s gradually becoming an addict to hate.

The paradox is becoming a wonderful actor.
For without a role it fears it will slip into the break of depression.
The paradox is a rippling shadow
Within it’s scars, regrets, and fears.

The paradox is a lost angel,
beneath it’s demonic disguise.
The paradox is beauty,
but it’s so d*** ugly in it’s strife that beautiful and ugly no longer suffice.

The paradox would never want to run away from love,
but it almost always could never be content enough to stay with her.
The paradox is a loud and tormenting hurricane,
but only because if it wasn’t it would fade away.

In the end, the paradox has turned from ghost to vampire.
It’s marched back through time, into the garden of Eden with fanged teeth and bloodshot eyes, fallen.
The paradox has devoured and bathed in a blood pool of evil with the serpent,
then fed from the blood of the blessed to feel alive,
to become something numb to the pain,
like the Cherokees darkest beast, the white buffalo unleashed.

The paradox once played a beautiful violin,
but it got caught inside the pandemonium of living.
It lost it’s divine instrument within the holly lands,
and forgot the sound of it’s own lullaby.

The paradox was born at twilight a deeply feeling energy,
but it’s slowly becoming numbed because of our own knives.
The souls will always be drawn above, out of the temporary home, into the tempting ecstasy of light, out of the threshold of the twilight to become the premature god to play…all until the revelation when all the souls will go too high and be burned by the sun and turn to ash once again.

Ashes taint ashes,
and we all fall down.
Ashes form ashes,

and our soul willingly dies.

The author's comments:
I really don't think I was inspired to write this. I just started to write randomly, my eyes sort of glazed over and I let the words just transfer from my brain to paper(or computer). I hope that this poem will make people wonder like I did after I wrote it and looked back at it.

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