An impossible conversation, an impossible meeting.
An unexisting meeting, with an impossible woman.
A woman with sick pride. A woman with an ego.
When connection is without reach, and in the middle of a stormy ocean.
An ocean covered with a veil of fog, as thick as the thickest lie.
A lie only she could create.
When the opponent has already made the choice, and the opponent is concealed in her own dusk.
Her dusk of sweet darkness and twilight. A twilight of her world, which is a world of dreams.
When your enemy has got something of value within it’s grasp, you can do nothing but stay hidden.
When you have tried it all, there’s nothing but a twisted law left.
A law that you can evade. A law that’s not durable. A law she will twist.
Leave her in her bubble. Let her infect it. Let her grow into it. Let her die in it.
Let her create her lies and excuses. But when she creates lies about you and yours it gets harder.
The conversations gets astray and wrong, but still she’s in control.
She makes demands, she creates even more lies.
She leads everything to herself, away from the questions. Away from the essential.
Wrath grows with the people aware of this everlasting discussion, and the turns gets more brutal than ever.
She forgets her responsibility, and even more weight is added to your back.
People told not to interfere becomes involved, and their evolved frustration leaks out in the world.
You start to crawl for the finish line, with her words hanging over you. And that veil of fog is closing in on you.
She will meet her hell, she will meet her superior enemy.
She will then use these very words against me. She will create allies, and send them to me.
She’s keeping close eyes already. But she will fall. Someday.
One thing is for sure. This poem is not finished. I will win this war.
No matter how long it may take me to overcome this invasion of plague I will get my victory.
Though I too will be hunted I will get my sweet revenge.