Mur-der. Mu-rder. Mud..ier. Muddier than the lake. Muddier than the river. Muddier than the streams down your eyes. Muddier…than me.
M-urder – Further in to the heart.
But Murd! Murd!!! Murd-ier! Murd like me! Murd, and merge, and intertwine. Like Murd, like murd. And I like mud, like mud. But Murd again…murd again.
I say: murd.
I am: murd.
He is: murded.
It isn’t funny. Oh, no: It’s not. They say: to be murd, is to be dead. Murd. And I proclaim those words: Murd, murd, murd. Murd like me, like them, lie those behind the bars of freedom. My hands shake, yes, they shake violently, yes, shake. Shake. Shake, like shame.
My eyes, my body: they tremble. They twist, turn, and fumble.
They also spasm, down there like the guy on the ground. Murded – They blur.
Oh…murd. Murd-Murd-MURD! murd. The words of the murd, simply: the murd(!).
He grips his hair and pulls clumps of it out and bathes in his blood and lies like the log he is: to be cut, to be shaved, to lie in clumps of his own flesh, his own kind. But not me. Not yet.
Fire. Dire. Mire. But ain’t murd more dire than your mire? Let it be so. And strike the murd down. Let it bleed. Shh… Let it bleed, whisper out, and flow. Like you! Like the living from your hands!
The words bloom, tremble, spasm. Let it churn, turn, and let it be so. Let it be known. The murd down the hall, trembling, spasming, a knife in his hand with the intent of murd. The engulfulation of murd. The blaze of his fire.
Murd: And he walks down the hall. His head cocks and sways. Oh, murd. The murderer.
He is not fit, I say. I grip the knife as the guy I am. Instead, he is the victim of the murd.
Murderous. Better-ous. Detrimous. Foul words of the murd.
And it is “murder”, better than the detrital around.
I scream. I yell. The carpet dirtied by the murd. The promise is nothing. Let it engulf my mind.
You yearn: yes. You yearn for that love. Come to me, my arms. I care: let it be so. More than the mire you bathe in.
Oh, but “Love”! Love-love-love-love-love. I shan’t proclaim once again: Love! Oh, dear god. Love me not for the guy who was murded. It’s me: love! Oh. But love, ain’t that dire too.
Murd-er. Better. Oh, it’s criminal to love such a thing…no, a person: The Murd.
Ah, but he tells me it ain’t a word. Ah, “I shan’t say it once more?” Ah! But it makes no sense! It makes nothing! Nothing! I tell you, nothing. Nothing of murd-er. Not yet.
Murder: It is disease. It is chaos. It is detrimental. Ah, but he says it is okay: To simply leave it away in the grime and blight of your eye: The eye of your apple, for the aspiration of others (for it never leaves).
Say, puppet, ain’t it glad that I am the murd?
My mind is clear as I leave the remains of his home in the accident of the fire. I see now, that he is but a puppet, and I am but the carver. I let the fire rage so much that I can’t stay any longer. The strings can only drag me along with his lifeless body. Aye. I’m not a believer of fate. Not yet.
The curtains of our stage wither away into the light. The darkness creeps back from the surface of my eyes – into the depths of my eyes. It cowers! Outrageous. It cowers from those that are rife with it – Not the murd – I shan’t say – but the friends of the murd.
I see cages of despair, bars of the un-freed. And puppets just dangling about, free and, yet, why not me? Why not me, who is so potent, so willing, so rich, and so fast. But then, why am I so stuck here in my life? Why, I say, it is so fixated on me. When did it become me, for who I am? In the reflection, is that me? Are those my black, black, black eyes? “It is me. Murd. It is just me.”
To lose is to relinquish the life I just gambled.
I fear death. I fear the puppeteer. I also fear myself, the murd, the burner, the yearn.
I can’t account for what is life, for I had only taken its life, and not part its living. Not from myself. Never.
I’m lonely, ditching the ‘friends’ I once had. I miss the pain, the joy rides. But I hate the hate. We still linger together. Cast away? Thrown away? Locked away? I do not know. It is boring, hiding everyone under the murd. Have I been given my life? No, not yet. Not under the murd, for the love of the god is dire. No, not yet.
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