Dead Fingers

Etching, clawing and scratching, reaching for something

The keys, empty, the mind, empty, the river of lyricism, dry. A mans meaning is lost, his purpose, forfeit. To depression, to darkness.

Once your enshrined in darkness, lies fill you, becomes your anti-truth, and you can not see. People drift further away, the world freezes over with wickedness as far as the blind eye can see, and the paranoia, eats your heart insane

And the dead fingers slide over the keys, searching for meaning when there is none, the king of lies, like a black veil over your eyes, consumes your hearts desires, converting your only want, into death.

Is this your legacy? Found dead at the typer, old, new, the smart phone, you there, more lifeless than the blank page next to you, telling the world of your last moments, your last thoughts, your life's meaning, a blank page. To be remembered, or more likely, forgotten. 

As the one who was weak, who gave up, who wasn't strong like you. And his story becomes whatever you say it is, like history. 

And the world would never know that you were stronger than most, that you survived terrors most wouldn't have, remained sane, remained smiling, remained close to the chest, for the sake of not spreading your misery, a shining light, that could no longer fight the infinite dark alone, unnoticed.

It's not always weakness, but to not be noticed, to not matter, to be unseen, is like the world itself wishing death on you. Your options become doing the world a favor, or forsaking the world, and everyone in it. The lonely are always alone, they forget how to coexist