The fallacy of me
A fallickle man torn deeply at the seams,
Clocks flowing backward,
I am but the shadowed after-image of the yet foreseen.
The desolate paths etched in green and blue,
Make way for the emperor,
That which is me.
Shallow and hollow shells,
I do not see life in them,
For the depravity of man fell solely on my shoulder,
Gothic be the day when I stepped into the brushery of that dream,
To stand below the ocean,
Where I could not be seen.
I grip the strands desperately through this effervescent dream,
But those who wake cannot see the afterimage of me,
Torn delicately from the seam.