An Endless 30

A string— unwound, not broken
melancholy— the rhythm rang
where Orchids bloom unspoken
beneath tears the sorrow sang
whispers through the windowpane
A cry for help, for need
of primal instinct against better judgment
the cost of a good deed.
 
the need to impair,
to make yourself believe.
through constant despair
will you finally be free?
 
oh, the horror! the tragedy!
when lust becomes a liar
drenched in misery
forever in the fire.
 
shunning vanity and cowering in shame
emptiness prevails in a facade of fame
left to ponder the depths of your soul
incomplete forever, a complete hole
long hours of silence grin
as the devil’s workshop starts to spin
the 30th comes at last awry
let the next one never begin.