Blackwell

The features on his face are blank,
And his memory defines moments,
With lies that are no more frank
Than purely invented monuments.
In the chaos within.

In his purpose he tries to find meaning,
To waltz in dust and continue reaching.
Fervent for construct or crowning mold,
The chaos and darkness to hold;
The Blackwell of his soul.

He clouds himself in unreal happiness.
Then a gallant rider he is to the eyes!
In truth he swims in utter madness,
Featureless in his impenetrable disguise!

He tries to see himself in the future
As a harbinger of light.
But he keeps forgetting to nurture
All that is in his might.
In Chaos
Souls Respite.