If the dirtied moment was around
You would scream colored sounds
Driven from the under belly
Of the human lung so heavy
It could carve the leather from the couch
Would your tongue betray your mouth
Up against the ceiling tiles
The spine morphs its straight files
I feel so far from your cemented feet
Crystalize your costal heat
Brave is not your name
Passion bears not your pain

Firm on the hands of the God's man
Bleeding through responsibilities and dinner plans

Think firm on your own charm
Think to philosophize your own arms

Look in the glass and hate yourself
Heal, then offer your lonesome help

A sage reflects his own heart
And picks and tears it apart

To criticize the fair is to release pain
For, the criticizer only has all to gain

Curiosity arises on me whilst in my slumber-
Begging for death - bland, little, and somber.
For what wine quenches in the finis?
Life contracts death as death to the mother.

Is the ship rested upon the seabed departed?
Lost and addled the skeletoned sailors uncharted?
Oh! Their diaries fail to notion-
Of a cataclysm that waves adapted to fainthearted.

For what our mirrors surrender
Is that which our ideals birth

Leaving for the colder time
the poet's friend begins to climb-
that staircase of reform.

But in the creek the poet thinks
when did our time begin to shrink-
o our bond is now deformed.

Age in it's wicked heart-
tipped and teared us apart.
I never took you as a ghost.

In youth I would always say,
"Can't wait to grow and move away",
never should've left the coast.

I miss you my old friend.
I know it's been awhile since then,
I ensure you my love is home.

But we will never be same again,
we will be away my friend,
drift apart you talented beast, may you roam.

Taunt my precious ways with visions
Propose a chance of euphoria
End or fix this heartbreak
This mind ache o' mine

Chirp a sweet old song
on a white porch
decorated with nature
A breath of purity

Forget all I did wrong
And I'll forget soon
Apologizes all mailed
in letters by noon

No one knows peace
except the wrong
And the wronged know
only sad songs

A barrel filled with eyes carries one hope.
A rather gruesome and unpleasant hope,
that feast upon the living and the live.
For the barrel hopes of death.

The death of love, life, and everything in between.
The barrel asks for life, no matter rancid or clean.
Ringing on heavens portal there is no consideration.
For love is not its first mutilation.