Cerno

The realization overwhelmed the entirety of mind.
The conscious was not aware of the fragmentation.
The attack was severe and was finally calling me:
Happiness does not belong to strain but solitary,
escapism from the given direction.
Love does not concur with my contentment;
I do not love and distorting silence disappears.
The filth I developed could never be shared,
however, I remain to decipher and yield
learning, avoiding total disconnection
for the music to be real along the lines of sting.
Peace is not void, rage is controlled.
Whatever beauty I created could never 'be':
words too long, thought unsaid, portraying failed.
Abstractions magnified in mad disjunction,
dreams valued, substance pierces to order.
There is no lack of expression,
only the attempt fails when misread
so the grace disappears as instrument rusts.
I progress to not let chance swing value away.
The old aging time restates in continuity,
needing to justify the accident pure in act.
Until death materializes its utter existence,
this will grant me worthwhile forever.