You're a disease.

Eyes shaded the marionette strings of media mavens.
The malevolent walking dead and the meek are evaded
in a formless hue, ricocheting through
benevolent shrapnel
in a form of malcontent doesn't shed.
Sever your palms and trace every line engraved,
like every day flipped was preconcieved to a fate.
Read psalms to efface
this Holocaust whose hollow cause
was created flawed, under bullet scars.
Russian Roulette, only with a full clip,
what do you live for?
Tears once shed won't relate to rest,
yearning for sense of direction as to relevance for anything.
Light's a farewell gift
from darkness on our way to death.
Kiss the resplendent lips of your memory,
grip me to decree our faulty legacy.
No one is remembered,
just as no one is innocent.
We're adjacent to those being blinked
from the eyes of existence.
(And you wanna be) described with plaques and spangled epitaphs,
all which say who you were as a man.
(And you wanna be) sized with hands holding countenance, folding to collapse for your loss in the end.
(And you're gonna be) another meaningless, breathless, heartless corpse stricken with rigor mortis.
(And you're going to be) contorted and pained, wasting away, plagued with claims of how they'll remember your name.