Sordid

[The Fallen]

Ah, what is this sordid life that drags us so through the muck and mire, souls passing in the night, stained with the horror and drained to the depths of any humanity, which hangs like tattered shreds of a death shroud of the mouldering corpse forever rotting in the grave.
Who could say what the future could bring? Is our Fate written out like some dusty novel lying forgotten on some shelf, or do we make our own destinies. There is probably some corny witticism that could be tacked in here but that would be besides the point. Words are just an expression of life, of life we have learned, have suffered, have despaired with every hacking breath still left in our forever dying bodies. I am told I have a way with words, my pen, a sword, cleaving the darkness and leaving a trail of carnage, all in the cause of the revolution of art, a higher freedom that shares pain, wisdom, and life.