"...It's like raising the Dead"

Without proof, you said, you could not believe.
Without faith, you tucked tail and fled from the man who'd convinced me to leap.
This is madness without glamour.
A silent obliteration without the drama.
This is abandonment, leaving no pride nor dignity in it's wake.
I stand before you, a 12 year-old again.
I stand before you, who could very well be my father -call the perpetrator by any other name.
I stand though I've lost:
Me;
You;
Any hope of an alternative universe.
And yet, I've come to this final meeting with a hapless naivety. Perhaps just to show you how still your fingers can tame my tempests to a hush.
How a broken heart can beat steady though clumsily, like the pathetic hobble of a lame man.
How the colourblind is dazzled by a brief instance of dreamy haze.
How the dead-inside raises her head to accept again, and so willingly, one more killer-blow.
From you I part with a farewell gift: here is your proof that miracles can happen, and oh with what profound cruelty.
Goodnight, Anata.

Good morning, and rise Lazarus.
Rise and speak, but not of love or courage.
I've been promised the end of the world. Speak. Let it be (,) what we live for now.

A Historic Injustice

This is Sűleyman the Magnificent. Pray, see what a dashing you blade he was. Gaze awefully upon his striking features, his piercing eyes and that epic, Alexander-esque nose. Lo and behold the dignity with which his moustache sits atop his upper lip. How he carries the weight of his immense turban, with grace, bearing and modesty on such a slender neck...just as he carries the weight of the empire upon his youthful shoulders.

And this is the ugly woman who stole his heart and ruined his life. WTF?