Walking The Night

my reflection is a skeptical fear of
bruising cuts as soft as a fresh gash
because these contridictions can be
like razors cutting down slow to end
all of the apathy to cover my scars
covering all thoughts of conception
endure hated contrast of moments
broken into clusters of tales
my lungs are fading into black
gasps for scarce lag of vanity
a collection of lies infest the wound
leaving deaths door open for me
a final soul of criminal intent
will be found and convicted
memories existing down the long path
with my lifes embrace
holding on while I pick up pieces
and my fingertips burn away
unable to realize identity
and nothing will cange the horror
ravish legions come to burn it away
punishment painto impose on torment
a child sinning, a haunting gratitude
blasphemy in cursed followers