How odd is it that we draw hope
from celestial creations falling to their death?
As we wish upon the shooting star,
it breathes its last breath and shines its last light,
and collapses into extinction, save the fading trail
etched into the night sky.

Yet as we too fall further from the orbit of life
into the space of death, will we too burn.
Then at least we will have drawn another line
in a constellation far too grand for us to see.

And when I have finally returned to cosmic dust,
and begun my journey of falling once again,
then I pray that even in death, I may be
a sliver of descending hope, illuminating
the unknowable skies.

the silver blade hangs above my neck,
tip to apple, edge to skin.
as another assault accosts me -
I savour the bleed, for one rarely
tastes life itself.

and yet even as I hang
in the balance, my lungs refuse to give,
I groan bubbles and moan smoke,
a sputtering engine doused in oil.
I drown in soap, a futile attempt
to finally be clean.

but even bleach blunders a bloodstain,
and one cannot erase what never was, nor
what always was. I drain myself into the gulley,
if I cannot leave, I shall at least escape.

yet I am stuck in the pipes, tidal motion
flushes me with poison, a final notion.
as death courses through my veins,
and I can no longer rhyme
as I run out of time,
it seems that one
cannot simply
choose to
die.

Only when the sun puts its head to rest,
do I truly wake. As the last gaze of eyes
that aren't mine shift their focus, my lungs
inflate with relief.

I am released from the tethers of perception,
and I am allowed to be alone with myself. Only
the night knows who I am, and only then
am I who I am.

To be free is to not be seen,
to own is to not be known,
to be is to simply, not be.

As the sun aches awake,
I retreat into the prison of my mind
and I will be who I need to be.

I’ll wait in the car
And fog up the windows
With shaky breath, I steady myself
I drag ******* across and through
Some divine slit I have created, I will admire
You.

I will be your yesman,
And I will never have a question.

I will drive us to anywhere you want to go
Even as the brakes groan and tires bleed
I will remember the rhythm of each road
And I will play it for you when you want to
Relive a scene that I have only seen from
The windscreen.

Even as I break and groan and tire and bleed
I will wait in the car and watch you live.
And I will be happy, and I will find reason
Even if my nails are biting into the handbrake
And my foot has long frozen to the pedal,
I must be happy, and there is always a reason.

When the day where you can no longer dance
Finally graces with me with its dawn
I shall then pick myself up from the driver's seat
And walk into the sunset like in the movies
And for them that is the end
But for me that shall be the beginning.

the trees cast their gaze away
from the rot of a ******,
the inexplicable slaughter of a sapling,
its singular leaf blackened and
fetally curled.

they cry, "we could not move,
we could do nothing," and nothing
they did worked because they did
nothing.

innocence now only remembered
in the pungent stench of death,
an infant body but charcoal in the ground.

they wail, "for there was no rain,
for there was no sun, we have yet again been forsaken!", trembling in harsh winds
that carry the ashes of their children.

they strip themselves, for it seemed wiser
to clothe the dead than the living, and so
a singular broken stem lay beneath a swathe of fading foliage, brown and red
enveloping an all too conspicuous black.

even as the fire ravages their naked bark,
even if the forest goes up in flames,
even though they have been forsaken,
they will at least die in the embrace
of a world that once loved them.

He looks upon his beloved creation
invariable, inevitable self-destruction
a cycle of vainness and nihility.

He makes no mistakes,
no shots missed when
none are taken.

and on the eighth day,
He sighs...

Breathing life into a world
that cedes purely to death.

when eventually I come to pass
I pray that they rip me from limb to limb
such as a flower sheds its petals
and that I may be more beautiful in death
than I ever was in life

for we only see the vibrant rose
in the fading colours of having been plucked