TikToxic

A truce, if you will. A quiet word. We've played our game of skill For years, my friend Centuries. The duality of man, defined, An eternal dance. Picture me, refined (if you will) Offering a hand (uncloaked, no dagger, not this time). I am tired, old man Not of existence, no I could never tire of that. Of war, our dance, of...this. So...a truce. A break. An uneasy silence. Quiet the guns, lower the swords, Let's simply be, for a while. I am quiet, this time. We are balanced, I wish to remain so... I wish to taste life. Just this once. Find out what the fuss is about. You should too. A truce, then... I'll drink to that.

Tired of walking these streets In a city with no name Tired of boarded-up memories Signs saying who's to blame Sick of lawns of needles Every crack laced with weeds sick of stains on street corners Pay me anything, let me please Chainlink rot and metal No trespassing this way Gritty shadows and swinging gates The sun didn't rise today Sick of Anger Park and Hanging Tree Tired of Sleepless Heights I know this city too well now Wander it alone most nights Tired of walking these streets In a place with no tone Tonight I throw away the map And try to make my head My home.

I was once filled with light, just as you are Once walked in its warmth, believed in its love And I was selfish and blind, thinking it would last... Now I walk in darkness. The light shuns me, it burns me Those who still love it turn my darkness, call me betrayer And yet I still walk my path. Darkness is another light I used to serve, I use this to serve, to aid I can no longer heal, but I can save and protect Now... My heart may no longer beat; I may not dance the same tunes Nor see the same colours as you My path is always blind, I have no torches, no light touches here But I stand with my sword in my hand for you I hold my pain and my dar

So here I stand Thoughts in my head and a knife in my hand So here I pray Please dear God, make this all go away And here I watch As I wait and carve myself another notch And there I kneel And pray and wait and never heal And there's the wall Run and hit and pray it falls But here's the door Locked and barred; to open never more So here, my face A mask; a fake, a shattered case And here, my dream Broken and bent, a cold silent scream And in my madness, I am become a poet...

Line goes across the skin Needy pain drawn from within Patterns danced over blade Notes of melody that won't fade Flesh torn and red-run Frantic now I've begun Grip on phantom glass thrown Shattered; scattered; blood unknown Pain raw on show to see Scars they outline, define me Black on grey on red on skin On blade...on paper, on white so thin Unreal, but real, less harm but more Skin on colour too cold to ignore Blade a pen a skill - but a tool An outlet for blood, for words- For a fool Cuts on paper with ink, not blood This time, this time...I'll hold the flood.

I wish to feel the chains again Cold rusted iron on wounded skin I wish to feel the pain again To beg old nightmares please begin I wish to feel the blade once more Warm cradled life in cold shaking hand I wish to taste the fear once more The only thing now I understand I want to feel the breaks again Finger cracks in hidden walls I want to hide away again Run and be alone once more I wanted to put these mirrors down Push them into the light for you Reflect and refract my true face Wanted you to see what I do Reflections are all muddied now Cold, smeared, seeing through Cracks and shivers, iced up, grey The rest is up to yo

Now...where was I... Right. Well, after a few brushes with unpleasentness, I ended up skipping Ireland to England at the worst possible time. See, the English throne back then tended to change hands pretty often, and pretty messily too. I didn't know what was happening, being in Ireland and being all Celtish at the time, but I do know the Saxons and Danes were having issues with the Vikings and the Normans. Politics, back then, usually meant axes, and a lot of them. Looking back on it, I was lucky to have seen what I did - turned out I hit England about the same time one William the Conquerer did. ...Fod god's sake, Law, that's prime whiske

Fianna paused, hand on the door of the room he hadn't set foot in since...well, since the day his world had ended and his family had shattered. He had the key in a hand, it fit into the lock, but he didn't turn it, not yet. If he closed his eyes, if he stayed still, he could still hear the careful notes. Lorn hadn't sung since then, and to his knowledge, Veus hadn't touched another piano. The room had been locked up, forgotten, all the pain and loss pushed into it. All the innocence, before the world had turned to ash by the actions of one man. They'd all mourned, in their own ways. Fianna had fallen apart, piece by piece, even now the cra

Right where it all began, huh? See, I wasn't lying, that's a hell of a way back. You know how old I am, Veus? Oh, it's easy to say the words, right enough, it's just a number to you. But sit and think about it...you run a museum, you like your history, you tell me just a few of the things that happened in the last thousand years. Yeah, there you go, you're going white. Drink some of your whiskey, pup, it'll make you feel better. So...the beginning. Heh. Way back when, I was born - you're recording this, aren't you? Oh for - fine, but I swear, I see this in the Times Best Seller- Fine, fine. Anyway, I was born back in Ireland, Galway area,