Everything burns in me.

Plagues of fetid corpses rise like anchors through the softly spoken vaults of my subconscious designs. Filling with strife and longing I tear through misconceived wastes, burning away the long hours of what was meant to last. Everything burns in me, one long lost moment to the next I bleed out the fires of another lost attempt. Pretending to be something else, wishing there was something else, dreaming of illicit sex and the mouths of forbidden women. Lips, beautiful and scarred hold me, wrapping me in imaginary bliss, binding me with unreal rapture, spilling me into empty air. Where reality exists there is no place for those like us. We live in the dark rooms, away from the eyes of convention and twisting in the winds of our imaginary lives. If there was a way out of this we'd find it, but there isn't. It was lost to us a long time ago, when the wax first covered us, swallowing our souls. infamous creatures are we, riding out the burnt husks of the pretend lives we are given by the constructs of someone else's gods and demons. If there was an end in sight we didn't see it. If it was going to come it changed it's mind. And in our end we have to say, it was never meant to be.