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Description
Every native family has their stories about tragic love, about the sickness of star-crossed demise, and my dear friend Cid's ballad of blasphemy was no different.

His heart, dead with beats, had been dismissed behind one thing or another and hopped its way into hell, first with exhaust, then disgust; his borrowed time had given hands to the fight exactly eight weeks after his highest peak. He had drowned in ice-water and had never reemerged, never gasped for air again. "It will soon be worth the asphyxiating surrender", Cid had heard said in his hearts beats time and again.

His mother was said to be just as loco when it came to cupids uncanny tricks. It nearly killed her as well.

Now it has come around and given him a turn. " Bienvenido a la familia", he heard whispered under his Tia's breath. La verdadera familia.

  He could see his faults skipping towards him from miles off, but what can we do to help ourselves from that deepest lust that swims hand-in-hand with romance? Denials are loose kites on the electrical wire. Would we allow him some rest for all his trials? No. We couldn't spend our hours in pity when the sickness was chosen all his own. Did he lose all else but the ache to come alive with un loco amor? Yes. Did he suffer without reward and bank like dead fish, exhausted from up-stream delusions? Si. He could not even provide a safety net for insignificant others upon which to sleep. He had become immune to the feinding genetic demise that caught him in the womb of defeat.

Born of blood-blisters that gather on his heart.

  No miracles came around to ensue a new lullaby of his dis-ease. Desesperación. He blacked-out-of-sync with the outside world and rarely awoke to anything else but the fevers of lovely withdrawal. He would toy with Russian roulette as a side-dish to his daily meals. Once he caught a moth by its wings and sprinkled the dust on toast just to see the little bastard patter with panic as she came to realize the useless conditions of her main functions. "This is my dilemma" He would say with a betrayed smirk. "I needed to share it with you."

The toast was delicious.

  How many nights in foolishness spent with the bright-ideas that "I am exempt from that foul play of remorse." Now what?

  The untouchable mad-cap was finally breaking down. Dry heaving brilliance in the den of his despair. Cold-sweat on the lips of the dawn that he so fervently defended, basking in a trifocal snot-rag for solace, parading the corridors of foolish hand-me-down immediate satisfactions.  I awoke to hear his wheezing as the noose claimed his fragile esophagus.

The most tragic thing he left behind was the promise of resurrection… couldn't we just let him die with a guarantee of peace at his side? No.

The show must go on.

-Matthew Kurtis Taylor.

Description
Every native family has their stories about tragic love, about the sickness of star-crossed demise, and my dear friend Cid's ballad of blasphemy was no different.

His heart, dead with beats, had been dismissed behind one thing or another and hopped its way into hell, first with exhaust, then disgust; his borrowed time had given hands to the fight exactly eight weeks after his highest peak. He had drowned in ice-water and had never reemerged, never gasped for air again. "It will soon be worth the asphyxiating surrender", Cid had heard said in his hearts beats time and again.

His mother was said to be just as loco when it came to cupids uncanny tricks. It nearly killed her as well.

Now it has come around and given him a turn. " Bienvenido a la familia", he heard whispered under his Tia's breath. La verdadera familia.

  He could see his faults skipping towards him from miles off, but what can we do to help ourselves from that deepest lust that swims hand-in-hand with romance? Denials are loose kites on the electrical wire. Would we allow him some rest for all his trials? No. We couldn't spend our hours in pity when the sickness was chosen all his own. Did he lose all else but the ache to come alive with un loco amor? Yes. Did he suffer without reward and bank like dead fish, exhausted from up-stream delusions? Si. He could not even provide a safety net for insignificant others upon which to sleep. He had become immune to the feinding genetic demise that caught him in the womb of defeat.

Born of blood-blisters that gather on his heart.

  No miracles came around to ensue a new lullaby of his dis-ease. Desesperación. He blacked-out-of-sync with the outside world and rarely awoke to anything else but the fevers of lovely withdrawal. He would toy with Russian roulette as a side-dish to his daily meals. Once he caught a moth by its wings and sprinkled the dust on toast just to see the little bastard patter with panic as she came to realize the useless conditions of her main functions. "This is my dilemma" He would say with a betrayed smirk. "I needed to share it with you."

The toast was delicious.

  How many nights in foolishness spent with the bright-ideas that "I am exempt from that foul play of remorse." Now what?

  The untouchable mad-cap was finally breaking down. Dry heaving brilliance in the den of his despair. Cold-sweat on the lips of the dawn that he so fervently defended, basking in a trifocal snot-rag for solace, parading the corridors of foolish hand-me-down immediate satisfactions.  I awoke to hear his wheezing as the noose claimed his fragile esophagus.

The most tragic thing he left behind was the promise of resurrection… couldn't we just let him die with a guarantee of peace at his side? No.

The show must go on.

-Matthew Kurtis Taylor.