One chance, one hope of perfection.
Like a pure bubble, overflowing to capacity
with the sunshine of a life that never rains.
Floating, drifting free, the bubbles curiously roam,
Ignorant and naive, unaware, unprepared.
The carefree spirits guiding them blinded,
lost in wonder, numb to the cold darkness.
Eternal nothingness, the dark one,
the giver of sin has insatiable thirsts and lusts,
efficiently and uncaringly snuffing out
the tiny sparks of light.
One chance, and yet no hope, the consuming inevitable,
the bones of fate spell it out.
A bubble soars ever higher,
onwards and upwards.
Seeking,
searching for that futile goal it strives for,
watched by all as the void of truth
sets its inescapable trap.
One moment, one unyielding heartbeat, the one deadliest sin
is accomplished, the bubble hits
the unmistakable, yet inviolable wall
of reality and in an instant is vanquished to the flames.
Lies are exposed and another virgin mind
is seduced by callous evil.
Streams of consciousness scream and whirl,
turbulent in the tempest, as lightning flashes,
and reality is oblivious to the realm that
is then lost forever, for there is no return.
A one way ticket to the tainted.
Real truths metamorphosise into
a newly guilty soul,
and one more mirror turns to face me.
One cruel perverted reality.
One madness.
Mark Snellgrove
25 May 96