The Religion of Sound

The smell of reality. Dead roses on the bureau. Fresh shirts inside. The charlatans in their smile. Festering canker in their corner of their promises. Dribbling out its pus. Until I was red enough. So sore. The demon in my backpack was quiet until I decided I didn't want to carry it any further.

The angel on my shoulder never said a word until I tried to brush it off.

Conscience is not the meter. It's the mark. To start by, but not to finish. And most of the evil we do, we do unto ourselves. For the most part.

Not broken by. Nor able to. Changing lanes. That's all we're doing. Some causing this vehicle to accelerate. While other force it to brake.

I imagine his thoughts. I was too young then. And now I'm too old. These caterpillars with their defective cocoons. Search the wind for butterflies that never happened.

Though we sometimes wish they could have.

They're not mine. And I'm not theirs. And it's unfortunate. Because sometimes that's all we want.

Is just to belong to someone else.

The religion of sound is merely a whisper. The truth in hearts is often a lie. And that is where we differ.