"purple soup"

calm, like the rainfall. deafening.
this is the silence of being content.
raised from low meadows, burned free,
the world is our eggshell to crush.
 
walking shadows chase us daily, tame.
they wait for our bleeding to commence,
not knowing we have no fear, pay no mind,
to the failures and mistakes of our pasts.
 
angels wearing demon skin,
or devils playing God,
bring tortures of the finer sense,
completely legal by the law.
 
the past and the mass of humanity,
cannot alter our desired course,
if we keep the fires burning,
we'll continue to survive the worst.

to alter paths long thought lost by time,
we must strive hard, bounding many routes.
we must traverse those wastes of eternal slime,
made in mental creeks. that awful purple soup.