we are sentient,
we carve ourselves from gravel,
from volcanic rock and dying evergreen.

we crawl through clouds of dust,
limp on injured feet, tired hands.
we are arbitrary, we evolved to decay.

because we live in graveyards of our own
before,
dead selves.
we bury grief, after every
collapse, every bitter break of these bones.

we keep our skin as treasure.
we dig out our eyes,
to replace them with hands,
as if what we see,
could somehow be grasped,
and what he hold,
could somehow become lost.

cotton,
cotton we wove from webbed skin,
from burnt hair.

veins,
that were never meant to burst,
veins we thread needles through,
as if they were yarn,
as if they were something we could use to stitch ourselves back up again.

The shattered world vanishes beneath thee,
the emptiness, now pervading within me.
I see what was once there before,
now ceasing to be there at all.

What I once called,
my life and my family,
the cornerstones of my very identity,
turning into dust, a part of my memory.

Even this, ceases to be,
what was "forever", now just a "could be"
time erodes all that I deem,
important to no one, except me.

Yet this breaking,
deconstruction of worlds,
changes my perception,
for good or for ill,
into something beyond,
becoming adjourned,
into a part of something, new it may be.

My ideas begin to break,
my thoughts begin to shatter.
What was important, now doesn't even matter.
I recall a time, things were important to me,
now no different than the dust beneath me.

I then pay attention, to what is void and apparent.
The unchanging past, and the future in development.
I see what was broken, will be made anew,
and that there is nothing that won't be so.

Breaking my mind, breaking my soul,
breaking the heart that tears me so.
Overwhelming the part constituting this "me",
what then dies, is now reborn to see.

Of a time once past,
of a future yet to be.
Of a wholly new perspective,
rich as can be.

Our lives are such,
a deconstruction of the past,
to make a better future,
for every one of us.

People   come
And people go
Some  turn into  friends
Some turn into foes
Some stay for years,
Some even more
But some may
Leave you lost in hopes.*

Yet all we need,
Is to learn and know,
What once comes,
will one day go.
And that we need
To go with the flow,
Letting go
What is no more.

We've all been left alone.
Only our paper and pen understand us.
We're cursed poets.

I am a campfire cold hearts like to sit around and roast their marshmallows in.