Blurs & Battles Upon the Mobius.

[rewiiired]

You've won your war
against the players
but you haven't beat the game.

I know it's hard to see.

Yes, this was
such a pretty shell
till you began to see the cracks form,
those tiny pieces fall away.

I know,
it's so hard to tell
if you're running from
or running after when

it's such a high speed chase
in figure eights
and memory's gone so retrograde

but there's no one else
on the track, my dear, save for you.
Can't you see?

Your hardened womb,
now just shards, digging into
your soles like jagged teeth,

but you never notice the blood.
Too damn busy keeping score
in cat-scratch upon the wall.

You're losing
the game like the rest of us:
in your own, wicked way.

And it has to end, yes,
but not this way.
Yet its your prerogative,
your responsibility.

There will be no one else to blame
when you collapse,
no one else pushing away
or pulling so very violently
at your aching back.

Just remember.

No one else to run from,
no one else there to gain on you.
And so yes, of course it all
comes down to this.

You made so bloody sure
there was just no other choice.