a tragedy in miniature,
nothing but a puppet, being strung along.
when is a home no longer a home?
now that you're gone i might never know.
such an impossible creature,
and for a moment there i almost believed you
that we were gonna settle down and grow old.
now i'm the only one that's getting older.
making a note for the future;
it fades so quickly, like forgetting an old song.
your voice, your smell, your laugh -
now all of it's gone.
and i would willingly give up
the rest of my days,
filled by nothing but loneliness,
if it would give me another chance to hold you.

Enjoy little things in life
While you can
Before ended by Death's knife
Interrupting plan

I used to hide all day
Escaping problems that pursued
Leaving behind obstacles in my way
I am the one surroundings exclude

There is no shortcut to happiness
On this earth tread upon
We pass on a great big mess
To bury after you're gone

I will claw through tunnels
Until I find rightful place
Help you with your struggles
Cradled in my embrace

Until my wick rekindles yours
Reanimates you
Makes heart pound
Will crawl through soil and explore
Dig you out from the ground

The tomb intended for me instead
Buried you to save my soul
To end madness in my head
Dying
Thoughts swallowing whole

I walk this road of ruptured dreams
Softness fading from fingertips
Savoring warm remnants of bright sunbeams
Light out of my grasp slowly slips

Within his own image my brother searched for the Sun, but he could not stare directly into its rays and instead headed into the desert in search of water.

During the night the desert sat still and shimmered like the fourth hour of life after birth, enfolding and unfolding in an eternal ripple induced by the juice of the cacti tree. The days took there toll on his mind as he drank the juice of the cacti tree and chanted the song of Sun-Lam in order to ward away the lost spirits of the desert, those who saw the Sun's rays but did not believe we created God in the Sun's image. The Sun became a mirror of the dunes and many trees sprouted in the distance before my brother's eyes, situated at a mesmeric oasis, a blessing for his faith and resilience.

"Do not cross my path, for I am a tree that grows without water!" Thus spoke an etheric voice tangled in the mystery of the sand dunes. My brother stopped upon hearing the voice and fell to his knees, then fell onto his stomach, and finally rolled onto his back, burnt by the Sun, but crowned, so to speak, by a cresent Moon. There he died.

Many months later I found him before the tree, finally at peace. His ******* were rock hard due to the dry heat and I did not bury him as the tree forbade it and I was ushered towards the oasis, for I had not chanted the song of Sun-Lam during my journey and therefore I was not permitted to give my brother a proper burial. At the oasis I danced and ate such delightful fruit on the banks of the fresh springs, and although my brother had died, and had never found the water that would connect him to God— the true God who dances within the eyes of those who stare into the Sun— at night I could see him smiling down upon me from the stars, so happy was he to see me upon the water's edge.

the world might end in the afternoon on an average tuesday,
anxiously re-reading a dozen messages without an answer.
when a broken photo frame becomes the last drop
and you find yourself unable to believe that superstitions are stupid
and the familiar ringing of the doorbell sounds like a death sentence.
despite the agony all there is to show is silent acceptance,
because their yesterday's sacrifice bought you another tomorrow
and you can only pray that in that moment they weren't alone.
although this emptiness inside of you feels like a death sentence,
the world ends every single day without anyone knowing.

everything goes if we just let it,
even our universe.
when the light at the edge of it dies out,
as if watching a guillotine strike down,
and a glimpse of a memory, elsewhere,
so far from all we've ever known,
feels like home.
but the dawn is already bleeding red
and the answers have all but disappeared,
and this fleeting moment is all we have
before the last shadow falls;
everything goes.

a paradigm of solitude,
a monotone reprise.
she's desperate for a little break
to stop and shut her eyes.
a symphony of tragedy,
a prayer in disguise.
she walks her path so stoically,
but all their hymns are lies.
a disbelieving audience,
a concert of goodbyes.
she's desperate for a little break
to stop and shut her eyes.

repurposed
   some are led              
      whilst others follow
   one in   one out        
      regurgitate   swallow

Stroll with me under the trees
to where the old road bends,
at the hanging sycamores
then walk away
beyond my sight
for I cannot follow
do not turn back,
you have many miles to go
and new companions to meet
I will wait here, in the shade
tired feet need to rest
visit me now and again
when the leaves fall
but only in memory
walk on

"What beautiful flowers!"
Unaware of how much death & decay took place under the soil, right below.
Oblivious to the pain.

The speaker was a girl with long black hair, walking with another, a person with brown and golden hair, at the base of the hill with a weathered grave on top.

She smelled the fragrant jasmines & plucked off a handful to decorate her hair, now walking away down the hill.
Her companion lingers at the top, gazing at the gleaming white petals, contrasting with shiny ivory.

"Come down!" She calls. But the blonde has seen the engraved rock, secluded by growing vines. They decide to have a moment of silence.

The black haired girl looks back, then rolls her eyes before abandoning them.

The person left standing next reads the epitaph,
Their sunkissed, freckled face turning into gloom.

"Now that I've seen you, I won't let you be alone."

She gently kisses the keen flowers that are curious about her words.
Then turns to lay and nap in the grass and foliage for hours.