junk stock depleted,
the sky is now dirt and bones.
i wait in the void.


gravestones bathed in grey.
flowers dance in full spectrum.
i am lost between.


towers built to fall
are beautiful as rubble.
rising dust, their souls.


cracked mirror, bent sight.
everything was always like that,
explosions reversed.


nevermind that one.
cinematics are sickly,
if i let them dream.

on top of a broken throne,
a hopeless ghost that eloped with control
and then leapt off a cliff when
he was supposed to invoke
all those happy memories,
sits uncomfortably.

half of his entropy flows from disasters detached from his history
and the rest is the wind through the trees grown from bitter seeds
thrown into the dirt of what was meant to be forever.

crowns melt with enough heat.
clouds swell above the heads of those condoning his death,
a true crown for the ugly...

off with his head!
off with his head!
off with his head!

he sees them seething and he forgives himself for being a fool
as their screams retreat from the growing light of oblivion.

the flame of the candle
dances with the shadows
on the wall.

life and death are no different.
a dance.

one where I am still watching my feet...

im melting.
each breathe is a flame kissing the wax of my edges,
flesh to air, air to flesh again.
straying from the path is just another
precipice,
a precedent set against fair shares of neglected death.

i was promised a sleep so peaceful
even non-existence would be jealous,
but im still wide awake paying homage to every detail through a fogged lens...

its not as tragic as I would like to paint it.
more a backflip over a slight frustration.

i always said there was
nobody after you.

i don't think i wanted to
believe that,
but my beliefs have never
been able to cast light on
any horrifying nightmare
lurking in the shadows.

so, sounding poetic aside,
there is and never will be
anyone after you.

this is roses thrown into those shadows

Stumbling down the street
whilst scratching your middle name
onto a shabbat candle is me
doing my best Phillipe Petit.

I'll try to remember to read by the light.

as your grace tries to stretch it's wings
in that rusted cage he glues plastic gems on
i am besotted by the elegance of the plumage
falling to a floor i would give anything
to sweep.

the night i proclaimed my love for you
i made an attempt on my life,
the rationale was of the "if i can't have..."
kind, blended with other poisons,
and entirely half-assed.

only now, i understand that
whispering into tin cans and writing
poetry with hand-made quills is far better
than the inky black screaming oblivion
i almost slipped into.