asklepiades (asklepiades) wrote,

::whatever you know i know | and whereever you tell me to go, i go::

there were days in his past that even he felt good about, on some level.
but by the time it ended he would appreciate them all.
i used to picture what it would be like to look into his eyes at night
i tried so hard before the images would leave me and i'd be left all alone
and id catch glimpses here, there, in the jaded eyes of family and friends
there were reflections everywere, but all of them resonated like epitaphs to me
every eye i made contact with and every diverted gaze
told me reams of what would happened and of what couldve happened
and everywhere i looked i saw regret and longing and i knew i really knew
that all of the dead regretted their suicides
i knew it in every cold hand that i touched
i saw it in every face as they closed the curtains to me
this world
wishing it had never died; these people, wishing they had given themselves the chance
the chance to live, but here they were
a fine collection of cadavers
so often i wondered what it would have been like to look into his eyes
to be there as he truned his back, walked over to the wall, and flipped the switch,
turing out that spark forever.
and here and there i would see it, in a mirror or in the sad neglected waters of a pond
but it was never the same. nothing is ever the same as getting to look into your own eyes as you die.
yet so often i wondered, so frequently i yearned to see
all my neighbors, all my friends, turning off that switch.
shutting down their lives, shutting down their dreams.
it was cold.
these were cold cold roads that i traveled down
pretty pictures all hung about the corridors
where death made his home.

and then i wondered why i wondered
why i felt the need to know what i would see there
what drew me to the spark
what drew me so to life
when all had given up

why did i long to look into his eyes the night they closed forever
all the people that i pass here are so calm in their washed out tombs
picket fences, sunday dresses, empty sockets, abandoned tomes
and i think it caused a stirring
rustled up a thought or two
as to why the drive to be there was so strong
as to why i had to know the things i had to know
as i lay there fast within the grip of silence and of night
i sat up and blinked
and looked around.
and i set off to see if i couldnt find what was out there to be found.

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    I was wrong.

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