The Idealist

The phrases spew out of him,
ugly as ever.
He’s horrified,
wondering what’s dying inside
of this monster that breathes out this
fire that chars every
heart that will listen to
foul lilting phrases, all
ending as effortless
sickness spreads, severing

The ghost that he is,
that exists in his soul,
takes it’s toll, mad at death,
at his own ghoulish breath,
mad at life, mad at living, soon
killing each light that it sees,
since he can’t muster these

Rage at his disease-
the fear that lies so close to hate,
the hate that falls so near to love.
The fear’s enough to fill another
vessel of the rage right up
and push the very gates once shut
to burst above the pit where it
once strut.

Turning worlds amuck,
the muscled killer hates his hate,
near love, like he appreciates it,
spreads it like they ought to claim it.
“Here, hold horrid pain! If I
can never live again, then you
die too. Be gone with you!”
He so likes life. He’s mad,
deprived. Attempt is
fight. He’s twisting life
into his knives.

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