we are the nightmare

when we've complicated
the past,
and the future becomes
a mass of ripe color,
dripping with what has
already been done
to death,
and there is no rest,
no meaning,
or make
to the vibrancy
of life,
and the mistakes
are as golden
as the truths
we stand idle upon,
the end will
be as welcomed
as the flames
that swept us away
from our original cause.

the meaning
becomes as lost
as the truths we sought
like ghosts
drifting
in dense fog,
fluttering about
on our route
through the tender moments
of life gone awry,
and the sky is nothing more
than a prison
wrought with reason
and the treason
of our luscious love
broken in the twilight hours
as we devour
the subtle lies
that tie us to the fabric
of consciousness
where righteousness
was but a dream of a madman
hopped up on the cancers
    of the fallen.

so solemn and forlorn
when we're born
unto this
in the mist of desire
only to retire to the deep,
fluttering falsehood
from which we're torn.

cry against
the big city lights,
craving the night
where the creatures fight
and fuss
over the loss of trust,
and we're the very demons
that scare the hell out of us.