Words in blood

The earth below, trembling.
My skin apart that's now fading.
The sky above.
The clouds are near.
The sun that's setting.
The moon which never rises, completely.
Here they are, beneath and afar.

All is set now, a scenery for tragedy and ancient decay.
Burning in decay.
Living in the oblivion of a dying man.

A soul corrupted now withstands.
Inside the consciousness of a disease.
The silence is all-embracing.
Corrupting even more,
the empty space thats now our home.

Within the darkness, inherent to this state.
I cut my wrist and outlive my selfishness.
Then, bleeding without true harm...
I write before me,
this marvelous and nearly divine words in blood:

And here they are...
The eternal answers.

I feel nothing but emptiness.
I seek an image of myself; none found.
I do not know who I am.
I have no personality.
Therefore, I do not know who the fuck I am.
I have memories... of a persons who's now dead.
Who am I?
What do I have left?

A man should have his individuality, his personality unified,
so he can rightfully claim his dominion and character.

Otherwise... There's nothing at all...
nothing possibly at hand,
except the truth...

It hides,
it fades,
it vanishes.
And secretly within the drops,
almost hidden to the eye appears a writing that says

"The emptiness of consciousness is the path to disolution of
false imagery of the self"