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The pile of wood chips stack like the
Tower of babel from this concrete plane
The furnace hungers, ever patient for
******* blood
dripping cuts
Ripped up cufflinks that share the table
Every **** night.
Before attempted sleepless dreams keep this distance bearable by proxy.
I see your face when I wake up.
I see your face when I sleep.
I pray the days spin down quickly till I can see your face in person.
Until then I'll feed this furnace.

Are these scratches on my hand from my cat or a knife, or from catching the edge of a brick caught in mid-flight?
Will I remember the blood that dripped off my fingers to gently caress the paper walls, or will I find my hand split open again to replace the pain?
Are these dumb questions? I've heard there were none but right now I might drown in this lack of ability to distinguish what's really hacking the sytem.

Uphill rolling, the headless Oni butcher
Waving his arms, and the arms of others
Carving destructive burrows below
The walls of kindgdoms past.
Those fiery shafts of thought take flight
Bowls are gathered to make an offering
The stars above seek to shed new light
Because swords will not stop the thing.
The voices convince me to stand my ground
I pray they keep me safe and sound
Tartarus lacks motivation to claim the demon
I suppose
When I talk to the face I stole a thousand years ago.

The past is history
The present is a gift
The future is rife with mystery and cheap tricks. Pain as well but bygons are bygons so take a seat.
Sit.
You're making me nervous, relax and watch the passage of time where all plans backend the truck in front of us.
Everyone's ******, I'd hope so, there's 7 billion people who still believe their plans laid out are worth believing.
My plans are laid out like legos, so I can crush them myself. Necessary if I plan to build her a palace beneath the worlds problems, just gotta keep up my health

My present hardly exists.
The day to day feels the same as 6 months ago until she made her appearance.
I've been neatly pressed into a mold to fill this cog shaped hole.
Steamland could use a sandwichmaker like me. My angry bread would laugh at how stupid the machine-like dreams money grubbers and land lubbers ring in my ears.
They fear the truth behind scenery reflected in my eyes.
So they'll ignore my laughing meat slapped on heated grain to feed and sustain the dreadhorde that fills their pockets till the change clatters across this sterile concrete for the rats to fight over.
She says she smiles when I'm happy.
I smile when she smiles is that too sappy?
Are we now trapped in happiness now the search has hit the last stop of this decade-long fix?
I hope so. I have my doubts and baggage, though I'm fairly certain I forgot it on the last train stop platform. Now can I ask all passengers to please head to the next car 10$ richer and not look back as we have only just met and need to fill up each others lack of *****?