Without me

What has happened sense this entity has left.

                Places, Lights up, my lines are spoken by strange men and odd women. My beautiful hands are defiled by drugs, knives, and lies. All are placebos to the truth. My beautiful voice heard through medication to keep the depressed breathing, it fails every time. The belief in me is slowly burning down like the idols that were once built to honor me. The Love that kept me in the light is now extinguished. I am all but dead. I am on the verge of death. I’m afraid of leaving this world. It cannot breathe without me. But this starving world has forgotten me. Unable to satisfy its appetite I am lain waste to.
                The theatrical displays of my power have been contorted and perverted into something resembling a wounded dog. Changed and twisted around to make me seem like a villain. The distorted image of me comes often to life to carry your hopes into the sky just to destroy them laughing as the wreckage spirals down slashing wrists along the way. It sickens me. Without me, love turn to hate. Smiles become frowns. Love songs become desperate cried begging The Almighty to end the hurt. Clears minds begin believing destruction will wrought itself creation. So they begin the destruction of themselves. And it’s because I have been held off.
                I am a clown. I am an actor, a writer, a cause to fight. What more am I? Once the vox populi. In point of fact, I was once a meager virus, which infected entire being of the hoi polloi. But I was associated with vices that I was never meant to coexist with. Like the sexual desire of a nymph, I was ever-present. Yet like their luring, it was learned to despise me. Lies where spread of me. It was said that God, my Creator, detested me and my company was only to be enjoyed in His Kingdom, where I could be controlled. Stories bore rumor that my embrace was deadly. Somehow, it grew to be believed that I was the archetype of evil. Soon I was forgotten, and was replaced by my reverse.
                The lust to see me again soon broke free. But with the modern machinery I was lost and my admirers forgot how to summon me. So my presence was simulated. Addiction spread by some imposters. Suicide by others. All attempts to clone me failed and spawned destruction. My wont to reappear was strong, but I was still blinded. My name was echoed and my image was interpreted by many an artist, who without my initial glow failed. Improvisatory guessed how I spoke and what I said, they too where all disappointments. Disenchanted by all the men and women who tried to recreate me I withered.
            Unable to speak, walk, or become depressed, hardly being able to think, I merely existed outside the realm of knowledge, just out of the grasp of mortal hands. But I am slowly withering away. The climax of my being only exists in scripture in one solitary story, a pitiful resonance of a memory. The Garden of Eden before the serpent vanquished me.
            I am celebrated in one word. I exist in a distant past. I am the fool that brings enlightenment. The monk who keeps the books. I am simply one mere idea. A thought. I am Joy.