Ready To Kill

Illusions are crafted in my dim-witted imagination, the last moments of a past time creep slowly beyond my ken as I spin in unfettered instant wording. Without the longing or burning passion of my used up days, I sit in broken conformity, a sad and haggard waste of the time inside me. Peaceful in my lethargy I lie back, reclining, declining into chaos like my lost painter's art. I scramble at the thin threads of my destiny, weeping outwardly at the cause of my soul's laughter. This place is somewhere inside me, waiting, like a predator, patient, ready to kill. I feel it's weight on me always, everywhere.