When the blood boils...

The broken and the restless thats what they called us. Lost souls, forgotten long ago. Left to rot in our own mental cages. Dark shadows bend over like trees dancing in the wind. We sit in the shadows watching the world turn around us, envious like the angels fallen from the heavens. Our blood would begin to boil, burn and urge us forward like a leesh and collar. The drumming of my heartbeat pounds in the back of my head.

Empty vessels filled solely by the strings attached to our limbs. Like marianettes, pulled by our own dismay. It is not until the puppet strings snap are our souls release, destroyed. The beating of the heart never stops, pulsating like the neon sign of the motel where I sleep. Concrete alley ways attached to broken bridges and fallen forests. The trees above held people on their branches, hung upside down like caddle awaiting slaughter.

It is with skilled and silent desolation we strike from the shadows like a serpant uncoiled. Screams as slient as the shadows we came from. Born of blackened brimestone and soil, our lives sucked drive from one another. Each before us like an Anarchist heirarchy. Sworn in like an oath at court, swearing the most truthful lie you can conjure. The voices whisper of soldiers of light. Dusk and dawn rise and fall like incense in a room full of steam.

They call us the broken and the restless. Spirits damned to wander the shadows. Sparks amongst ourselves ignite the shadows void of passion. We walk in the daylight, along side you. We are your friends, we know you and you know us. You even see the shadows, but ignore it in a blissful guile. Eyes clouding over, the beating stops. A silent cry. A warmth washes over us like an ocean's wave. The final calming.