I am not a wordsmith though i have been marketed as such.
The anvil on which my words are forged carries not the strength of my countenance.
For I have not suffered the brunt of the storm and re-emerged pure.
My existence is scattered among placid lakes and tranquil horizon.
But jutting from this calm landscape is the impervious fortress in which i dwell. It is carved of false truths and allusions and is an opposite to the festive village in which honesty resides.
For honesty refuses to look to my fortress though countless fortifications have been made to bar it's presence.
Honesty is much too dignified.
I look to my peers in the village and feel a shadow of doubt creeping over me. But my fortress relies on shadow so I continue my work, building turrets and barring laticces, so the people of the village will be envious of my...
El Dorado, of my Xanadu, Goliath, my behemoth, my Titanic that hovers over them.
But they do not stop their displays of merriment and cheer as sweat beads my brow and my tower extends towards the heavens.

Realizations-hit-me-in-waves-to-fracture-the-ebb-of-my-blind-procession.

Why am i so cynical about these people?
Whoy do they make play and emotional howls while i sleep on my bed of mortor?
What angel inspires them to dance, what is it that they feel when my fortress is so desolate?
I endeavor to descend down the thousands of flights of stairs my hands erected, past the stone gargoyles who watched over my labor.
I pass these relics of my past and am suddenly halted at my destination point.

In all of my building, my ardent pursuit for perfection and greatness i forgot to build a door.

It comes to me that i never wanted to know Honesty's village. I never wanted to dance and make merriment while my fortresses walls decayed.

I am the fortress.

I question myself but that I am an impervious fortress stands.

You will not penetrate to my core.

__________________
tobacco pipe smoker
escobar, your life is over
justify the righteous nova
bullets flew out his right shoulder