The Fallen Prophet

I divine your nemesis.
Your inability to stand the breakdown of your cynical, absurdly falling opus,
Taken out of your own hands.
About to choke relicts of hope, about to lose control over those that
Shall remain your ancient charade.

Free and yet caged it prospers in disguise.
Too old to suffer, Too young to fall apart but doomed in every slice.
Facing the nature of loss, confronting the noise With eternal silence, becoming the fiend is salvation
As long as the prophet will fall. Condemned to Fail, I conclude that nothing shall remain. Condemned to go down, condemned to fail.