Is this a dagger I see before me, is there some point to the lunacy, how comes the feel of this blade warming my senses to deliver the wishes of men of mice. What thoughts you have, that you would be so comfort to know my demise.
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee; I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Are you not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? Or are you but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see you now and yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw.
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee; I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Are you not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? Or are you but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see you now and yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw.
Dare you I do, I trace the edge alone against the Sternum, poignant This dagger it taunts my senses. In it I rage, thrust outward- as I hold emplace the blade that sneered at me. I wait for the breath of mine daemon to escape. Release thee life, release thou anguish, here in my mind thee appears. You hold grasping my hand, clinching your fist, gasping for Air sweet or foul.
It is done, On this another day a battle won. Left with my delusion the future shows me a WAR that’s won. Dreams of time when all this I see are behind me, but never really over, never really gone.
The Ghost will keep company with me.
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