Troubled confessions,

Under the bright blue sun,

Holy and unholy,

It's all the same to me.

A deranged shadow,

I've seen Him at last.

Not an endless maze of hollow promises,

Just a being of flesh.

Morbid times,

And a half parched soul,

A search for nothingness,

Drifting through love and pain.

The voices in my head,

Screeched and clawed away the reason,

But still there persists,

A cancerous will to be.

Show me some pity,

Tell me you understand,

While I throw you to the rabid mongrels,

For letting me be myself.

The wretched, servile hound,

Roams across the damned square,

With a hurricane and a mirror,

As he looks but still can't find.

Just as I was turning the mirror,

For a brief epoch I did find,

Him, a yawning Huxley baby,

Curled, into a rabid hound.