Would you rather die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain?
The iron grip of human, the spiraling stench of reality,
I'm not certain whose story this is anymore,
For the lines are blurred.
I know no longer whose role my inner voice is willing.
.
To risk my soul, rescuing from whom my heart thought was a curse, only to know I've cursed a blessing for someone else.
.
Nothing hurts more than looking at my reflections of broken glass that's been spilled on the floor,
I've trimmed my cape.
I call myself hero no more.
.
These versions of myself,
These rotating circles of hell,
Now deafened to the humbling of Church bells,
There's blood in these old veins, still, or, is it so hard now to tell?
.
Heroes aren't stories for man to speak,
But, for an audience, invisible to his own eye,
A world of impossibility.
For, they were sent as angels once, to be,
Hand in hand, to live with us in harmony,
But something's now clicked,
It's a sense of alarmony.

© Lunaris