The first picture is the dagger,

not meant for killing blows,

meant for suffering and pain.

 

Suffering and pain is fine,

that's what fuels the fire,

or passion and growth;

nothing builds like the bad,

times and all the bones I stomped,

on my path to the top of the ant hill.

 

What love comes for the king ant,

can not be described simply,

in your kiss of death;

it's in the past.

 

Hearts have moved on,

but some feelings remain strong,

like those of hatred and volatile reaction,

and he way my body convulses at the thought of it.

 

These kid gloves refuse to come up,

permanently sewn onto my weak flesh hands,

with barbed wire soaked in sulphuric acid and vomit,

a mirror of my corrupted soul;

still trying to get better,

better times happened,

in a past life,

or forgotten memory.

 

Your ghost is weak,

and my resolve is weaker.

 

There was a time I was built for this;

mucking my way through some resemblance of hell,

fueled by a passion fallen out of favour,

long ago.

 

Do you remember it?

It doesn't remember you,

passion forgets quicker than sunsets,

on the boulevard where innocence was lost some time ago,

in its place resounds a soft, unsure echo,

fighting for its own space,

in this timid rat race,

where corpses wed,

the good are dead,

and my soul pukes up daisies,

symbolic of the lies it was fed,

it must have been something that was said,

or the mindless blood that was shed,

ridiculous,

blood doesn't have a mind,

and maybe you're over-exuberant rush of it,

explains something.

 

maybe the mirror's judging you,

again.