depleted
of energy,
a weight of gold
upon my heart,
its heavy dull luster
pushes down hard
squeezing out
        the light
suffocating
    my staccato
of breath
     I crouch        
quietly
in the brush,
the next step in
my process
                 pending
a dense rock
of pendulum
swaying time
  tick ticking
in my blood
cells reaching
the boiling point
just shy
of spilling over
into froth
waiting for
this conundrum
        to unravel,
my inner tigress
about to unfurl
             her heart
    to leap
and pounce
from
   within
into the
  tight
white
          of blinding
snow, the silent
storm of  
      the unknown
forever

Destruction breeds creation, yes this is true
Yet destruction still leaves us sore, black, and blue.

Destruction entertains, it gives a good time.
It gives me a reason to jot down a rhyme.

Destruction brings war and destruction brings peace
Destruction makes the population decrease.

Oh Destructive, destroying, destruction
Bring  about society's deconstruction.

Destruction is pain and it is joy
Destruction makes men out of boys

In destruction I revel
It's both God and The Devil.
It's the dark and the light
Its my moon in the night.

looking at the church under the nights eyes
hoping these simple prayers will suffice
searching for god through dark times

and i'm running out of rhymes
my brain is just filled with apologies
standing in the corner with my desperate pleas
it's just a simple yes or no
where do all my unanswered prayers go

Water drips
timing seconds
one by one
light to dark
lay me to sleep
give me playbook as a pillow
cover me with old papers
whіsреr me headlines
breathe deeper
move slower
crawl closer
stay longer
discomb my eyebrow
grasp the wrong elbow
mess sugar with pepper
till the next season come

again and again, the world renews the spike in the palm
and north winds bear down upon the inky black
where dead stars illuminate the zodiac of our inner defeat.
an upturned display of seedless fruit against a backdrop
of discrete harm... and the south wind scratching at the twinkle
of a last act. a mirage of poppies and golden wheat
from which the bread of our maker is baked into the glamor
of so much solitude in a galaxy
in your house.