What is this enmity that has befallen the land?

Gripping everything with fear through a dark shroud of toxic sand.

This perturbation has brought upon me vicissitude

And now I see clearly Life's verisimilitude.

What is left to behold?

But a sun grown cold?

Nothing but a barren miasma,

Ruins of former splendor and charisma.

To whom then do I run to?

To men of power in the chateau?

Or to the masses stuck in the dungheap of poverty, clamoring for rice?

Neither of them still have virtue--only a price.

I see this Change as unnatural, a fetid disease-ridden mutation.

And in response, I turned to self-mutilation,

Tried to render myself devoid of emotion

In the hopes of evading the impending perdition.

Throughout the bloody upheaval,

This visage of my former self has succeeded with its survival.

This unfeeling cold stone statue I have created,

Unflinching, yet doomed to be obliterated.

If they say that "You cannot know Pleasure unless you know Pain",

Then saying that "Only through Death can we truly live life" is justly sane.

Perhaps only through the icy grave

Can we experience the welcome warmth of being saved.

Death then should not traumatize

But instead trivialize

This meaningless existence in this temporal world

In this stolid bundle of rotting flesh and frail bones, all of which are gnarled.

Maybe, this final act of self-immolation

Is the only way to free ourselves from repugnant devastation,

And only by willingly sentencing oneself to blight

Can one enter into the light.

-A Suicidal Imbecile