I was to sell my soul
And gather every penny intact
Of what I once perceived irredeemable
Was now in sale for the meek and mighty alike
I was to bow down to the world’s whim
As fickle and unforgiving it may seem
Disguised as a tempestuous mistress of mine
Demanding every ounce of passion
Which she frankly did not deserve
I was to. Yes, I was to.
But that little faultless voice
Buried under the heap of insurmountable silence
The silence and numbness which only comes out of a liar’s conscience
Interfered and interfered good
Now neither exists the fruit of the whim that was promised nor the innocence, the juice of what was once naïve and raw.