Razors As Sharp As The Slivers Off Your Tongue.

Standing on the edge of every storm, I celebrate the taste of every tear,
We remind ourselves that the source of every sweetness tends to be bitter,
We encapsulate the solitude and refine the very nuance that enslaves us,
Why do we seek joy when it repeatedly disappoints and destroys?
Why do we seek this momentary escapade from the inevitability of sorrow?
Hope is but the ashes of ashes, faded from black, always fading and cracked.
I am fated to be created in the likeness of God, that I misunderstand,
For God cannot be like me as I am dead with hate, Disjointed and misguided.

This recent piece is a little weak as I lacked the requisite vision whilst producing it
Bloodied and In a Frenzy.