Hell has stories

Of mad hearts that had lost control

That gave into whispers

Tainting the purity of the soul

For if you dare gaze

You'll be persuaded

For if you dare doubt

You'll heart will be tainted

The abbys that gazes back

Is the abbys of the heart

Now you too

Will whisper your part

Communication is breaking our skin.

It is so much more than words. It is because we are and we need others know that we are and what we are.

It is not words. But it is also actions, it is art, it is sighs and it is signs.

Do you need words that say "I am happy"? Or do you dance?

Words that say "I care"? Or a hug?

Words to say "I love you"? Or a kiss?

Does a painting not speak to you if it has no written words?

Or a songs melody if it has no lyrics?

If I sigh deeply, will you not understand my state? And if I shrug, will it not make sense?

Communication is coexistence. Words are only a tool for your mind.

The candle burnt only to show the skin, that glittered in its light.

Light that reflected off the sweat of two bodies, two companions of the moon, two passionate lovers.

Lovers whose bounds have never been set, or challenged; by their spouses, suitors or by any other.

Other nights, they might spend bored in the luxury or their lives, where only a fantasy would help them pass the time; a fantasy that came true tonight.

Tonight their moans echoed, echoed and echoed above all other sounds.

Sounds such as, the steps approaching, the door screeching and the paper crumbling, in the opposite corner of the room.

The room, that was filled with heavy air, was slowly filled by the smell of burnt paper, a written conviction.

Conviction on grounds of infidelity sharpened the knife.

The knife, that now bloodied, ended the passion of the night by the candle.

Now you may call me pessimistic

But all life is statistic

Lets take a first meeting

That starts with a poor greeting

Your opinion is dull

But in percentage thats a null

And each subsequent favorable action

Improves your opinion by a smaller fraction

Good deeds may seem like the antidote

But the line is now an asymptote

And there's only one way to get closure

So can we start over?

Through the sea of fate

Infinite strings are flowing

Whose every reveal is bait

To the mad, dreamer or the unknowing

But worse are those that dare play

For their touch causes tectonic rubbing

And every caused quake, disarray

Short of the second coming

Actions determine the now of time.

Yet the past lingers in our mind.

It shows me that, which used to be mine.

That which is lost, and which I cannot again find.

Oh, but the visits! Such pleasant surprise.

If only bitter tears weren't our goodbyes.

I sometimes wish, I could feel more.

That memories of you weren't being destroyed.

So I could sense your touch, which I so adore.

And not have you fade like echoes into the void.

Curse this world! And forsake my sanity!

I'd rather be mad, than in agony.

Borders and boundaries, breakpoints of men.

Foolish of you, to think that both can be set.

Borders, simpler of the two,

Are set by experience, ignored by the fool.

They scare you with the unknown. With the eerie of whats over the wall.

To the mind they seems firm, but to time and determination they're known to fall .

But boundaries are the last and final limit of them all. The line to which, no border would dare to go. There's nothing over it, but for you to lose it all. To give into the beast, the mind to for go.

So do not challenge your boundaries as shackles of your progress. For bound we are so to animals we dont regress

I know death, I know it well.

I met it on more than one occasion.

I met it in the fear, in my victims yell.

I met it in the age, in the years abrasion.

And even though, I know death the best.

It came for me, like for all the rest.

Dreams are not for sale. Who would ever buy them?

You think of them as so precious, but they are only because they're yours. Once separated, they lose all value.

Unless, that dream is a project!

Now thats valuable. A dreamer, that started something, that developed something. That can go far!

That's when you sell, sell and sell!

And then start a new project and some day, you won't have to sell them.

But... The first step to make from a dream to a project, is to rationalize the dream. But you can't do that, you say.

And so you stay safe in your mind. With the "Dreams are not for sale banner" held up high.