Life of Masks (2) (Darkheart and The Fool)

Dark days ahead and wrought despair, a tasted evil that fills the air

A choking grasp that does not feel, or care that those it meets is real

A screen with words once typed then gone, no way to tell to who belong

Disconnected and uninvolved, with problems caused and left unsolved

Without remorse and madness driving, pain now born and fed till thriving

From once warm hearts left worse than dead, now with pain to spur ahead

To sow the seeds in other places, using gentle words and actors faces

To bring down those that once did wrong, and turn their sorrow to his song

Destruction in his wake he leaves, though the life once scorned was make believe

It was real to him and that’s enough, to wreak his wrath of lies and bluff

Pain done to him returned ten fold, of sorrow felt and pain untold

Rage on the world and rage for life, rage in sorrow and rage in strife

Let rage bring pain into the plan, to darken those he once thought his clan

Go on to cause him watch them suffer, the telephone wires were a buffer

No more would he let them near, cut off all ties and they’ll never hear

What came of him or who did these deeds, he laughs in mirth as his darkness feeds

~The Broken Heart Phoenix (Phoenix of the Dark Flame)

The days go by with tears from them, but from them some remorse does stem

The vengeance tapered off with time, even some forgave his crime

He had lied to keep removed, but now he felt himself behooved

To try and heal the pain he started, tear up the roots till it departed

Cursing himself to labors toiled, and show his hands for that he soiled

The fool and joke that was a man, belittled now and lost again

The path unclear without a road, the same path once to others he showed

A way to live and continue on, a sense of someplace to belong

Now he looks for a way to pay, for darkened deeds that returned this day

His world now dark from the pain he brought, only now time to give thought

At what was done and things been said, some one he knew may now be dead

Rage is fleeting remorse eternal, as he slowly writes his journal

For retribution he picks up a knife, and to each he gives his life

Should he say upon this plane, or go hell bound once he’s slain

More pain this brings without him meaning, so he leaves himself demeaning

Never more and without end, the artist the poet the fool without friend

~Eternally Cursed (Tom Fool)

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