Six feet under flesh

Dressed in a crown of thorn and fake,

swings a lone heart in its wake,

and beats but out, and never in. 

Too falls the mirror from its frame,

asks for answers, for my name,

but never sole has truth once been. 

What's left to do comes slowly clear,

I bury all that I held dear;

today my fate shall finally rest.

So take I all that they once gave,

choke it down to empty grave,

six feet 'neath flesh inside my chest.

Bitter King

He was a bitter king, they said,
and bitter, true, he ruled.
None, save one, could have him fooled -
The demon in his head.

His lands then withered far apart,
and, too, so did his mind.
Soon left was no one dear or kind;
just barrens, and a plaque at heart.

His crown stretched big to blind the eyes,
this gilded throne broke coal instead,
He trusted no word, save his lies.

The stitch of soul was bare of thread;
This kingdom came, so its demise.
Was I a bitter king; I fret.

Heartbeat

What then is hope, my truest friends;
a prayer prayed, or means to ends?
Or too desire in light guise -
A crack malicious in her lens?
 For that, I grew too old, too wise.

And left is nothing but regret,
or shame and lust when wishes met.
When all, that will, has come to pass,
keep we neglecting to forget;
for nothing fills this half-drunk glass.

A dream I dreamt, but half awake
and half recalled my faith at stake.
Longed for depth and found me thin -
there is no hope for hoping's sake.
I still beat out, but no more in.

Reality, as I've come to see it, is not ever to be enjoyed, for real and reality are not often the same thing, but simply is it to be assumed.