before the sun falls
before the black descends
before the stars shine like broken glass

sprint across the sky before the moon comes to wake
before the arch of the crescent glistens like a blade

and when you reach the finish line lean forward towards the light of the setting sun and hide
pull a vail of fluorescence from a
writer's lamp
and warm your throat with *****

red stripes of blood
stolen pearls as stars
a white house built with bones
the pledge, a discreet battle cry
a trail of tears we ride upon

How does the sky know I miss you? Has it found a way to read my mind because every time I think of you it always seems to rain?

How do I manage to maintain my rough countenance and undisturbed facade? When the sky screams I know not what to do. Where do I run? Can you even hear me at all?
They say there is a god above and they say a devil resides below, but which way is your soul?

I don't know.
I don't know where I'm fit to be.

Can you hear me?
Can anyone?
I'm screaming with the sky and the rain pouring from my eyes.

Can you hear me at all?

I am skin and flesh and bone
held together by spider web capillaries originating from the center of my chest
intertwined into a beating heart
I am hydrogen and oxygen and carbon
amalgamated
slated
into a living breathing creature
expected to stand upright and take pride
maybe we are deaf
maybe we are blind
we remain unconscious to the make of human nature
faced by the reality that we are beyond skin and flesh and bone
what remains in our heads a computing system?
what we are missing is emotional composition
the brain is beyond a structure of tissue and nerves
but serves its purpose as the mother board letting the gears of our mind speculate upon what the eyes have been taught to see
we are supposed to be efficiency
the future and our history
so if we've lived so long in the confinement of our world
what is the mystery?
our skin will never sting as cold as metal
until our brains have switched off for eternity
our movements will never mirror the rigid motions of machine
until the circuits of life have switched off in our bodies
and reverse rigor mortis has set siege to our lifeless shells
so why is death the warning bell of what we're doing wrong?
working ourselves in blazing heat
our bones clacking in winters storm
no meter to regulate the stress wearing us down
our joints swinging on hinges as we grow old
our limbs forever pounding in syncopated rhythm
this is not living
this can't be forgiven
when will we stop seeing blindly
when will we cease
and ask ourselves
are we man or machine?

the taste of her light moans still linger on my tongue
mixed in with my morning coffee I still taste her
still hear her panting
begging
lusting
for me not to stop
don't stop
keep going
the rosy peaks of her *******
still in the palms of my hands
my lips taking a drag along the minuscule curves of her neck
her beckoning whispers telling me not to stop
I didn't
stop

everything I write is true
no theatrics or false feeling but emotions I've learned to subdue
in a world where my sickness is seen as unfit to express what I'm going through
no fictitious fables
I'm unstable and standing on this shaky platform of impalpable words
one day I'll become too senile to know the simple verbs and nouns that kept me grounded
I'll wither young like a youthful clover exposed to an unforgiving heat