Blinded by the Reflections of Old
In the shadows of the podium, the meadows of the afterlife,
Stalking the presence of the boy, a gun clarifies - The tension's rife.
Singing to a vast audience, the masses begin to applaud,
The gun tatters, lighting the dark, revealing the face flaws.
A myriad of collapsed syntax, amalgamated with mental relapse,
Multiple impacts pierce flowing thoughts in a series of CLAPS, CLAPS, CLAPS.
Spazming in artificial flickering lights, fighting the plights,
Writing the wrongs with the rights of the blurred nights.
Hopes are bright, reality's dim, an audience of mouths agape,
Eight ape-like figures descend in winged strings of tape.
Clouds seep from the steep curves of his reddened heap,
Sweat drips, Death's harvest ripens and he begins to reap.
Tattered threads intricately tear the stiffled air,
Crying it's unfair, reaching under his corpse's hair.
A small puff of red dilluted moisture heads skyward,
Medics hold back the sick, muffling aside sly words.
Birds sqwak in the barren wastes of the arena's rear,
A first tier murder calls for the fires of the first tear.
Gun man walking, the flashes of killing stain his face,
Retrieving his case, and walking a guilty man's race.
The emergency exit creeps open, screaming as his son did,
His son dead after his first live performance, DEAD, DEAD, DEAD.
Stepping back from the mirror, the ideas his figure reflects scare,
Singing startles his pale appearance, and then he saw him there.
His beautiful son, singing his beautiful song where he'd left him,
The boy stands aware of his father's angst, turning from the dim.
His right temple empty, blood dripping, it was meant to be a daydream!
Trying to emit a scream, his body falls limp, and fades into the cream.
Red eyes struggle to open, the sterile white brings memories flooding back,
Relief crosses anger, SHOUTING into the white as it grows black.
And thus, the door to Mr. Morisson's cell closes. The book comes to an abrupt end. Having killed his son, he relives it in nightmares, day dreams, everyday activity. Staring into the mirror that isn't there, he's left blinded by the reflections of old, those that most of us wish may never be told.
End.
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