Everyman

I no longer think of real people in this room.
I choose to imagine men that have been
set up as the means to achieve the end.
With both hands I require steadfast churning
but this runs deeper than a standard whim.
Within the millions of "Him."
There is no solitude in the dark corners of this world.
No untouched plain where pleasure finds refrain.
The strange thing is the drive toward pain.

Before I could hope to afford your gaze
I spent the weeping hours of my life imagining your approval.
I put shovel to paper and drew out a response to anything you could say
but you never played your part that way
and I found groping in the dark my only avarice.

I see a semblance of the things I once would strive toward
crumbling all around me.
Finding lives of their own without the watchful eye of my destructive gaze.
Corrupting,
something and nothing,
bleeding in the background of a screaming, winged thing.
To sure to put upon you.
That never stopped the ones whose voices freely flowed,
from throat to ear.
The brain behind these passionate eyes.
His sturdy hands will never hold me dear again.