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Nekron Feb 27
Love lost and love lept from balconies
And steps between stoop and pavement and before the floor the thought of becoming better. If only I could dissemble each twine of thought balled in knots to
The next which led to me the spring forth and become the grass,
soil ground from bones and the wood once engrained with beautiful carvings of deer upon a mountside reaching low for morsels
Balconies break but baked what to reach for, what handrail can come so cruel as to pry each finger?

I leave myself and my body with it, I giggle as friends joke about getting high off whippets, I’ve singled out the thoughts which creep. No longer notions of flagellation, each word a bare reminder of fragility to this foundation
of mindfulness.
Nekron Feb 27
Black butterfly
Flocking to the hum of an old bright light

Dread the rings around the iris.
Working hard to burn
The candle

One day we’re old and the next
We can never say.

Every morning I cut into myself in the shower

Nobody can hear
Nobody can protest
When I tear the wings off my back
and hold them against my chest

Orater to life’s narration
Can say nothing when there’s no action.

Watch water in Sublimation
Fog against the glass
Nekron Feb 27
Do you ever get nervous.
And you say the wrong thing  

No I want it to be spring.
I want to feel love bring me a bit closer.
Pilfer through the past,
run with a purpose
but I know one thing is for certain it matters not the days or the weeks and how things worsen

I see the clouds
and how they’ll part and how I’m
a person
the versions who make them selves appear is weird
but I know the end of suffering is near

it’s the crowded rooms in the train stations waiting to board, lazily the coach opens and you hop aboard.
The rewards of watching birds flock Inside as the atrium between you
and the outside is wide.
When I remember the past I break
through the worst.
Wishing for the feeling
of love without hurt.
In pairs they’d fly though the building, following the train as it moves to the open, to the green grass fields I wield this ability to see the congruency of each step in my life.
Nekron Jan 24
Being Whorish
helps shoot my heart to the ground.
I want safety without nets

I want to suckle upon breast
But My heart and crown to rest
In the same place and in that my head detest

love lost to ****
Live like lice

I want something fine
Frigid forage in open fields
Mudded boots stuck to root and soot
I’m stuck again to ideas of prosperous activity.

That health follows body to mind and soul in suit.

but here I am stuck to boot my head again?

Cast idealistic creations.
Nekron Nov 2018
How alone I feel without you
How quickly Id concede
To touch
Warmth willing
What wishing
Wear me
Like a shoal
Crush my trachea  
With your feet
Oh the people you’ll meet

How alone I feel without you
How quickly I’d concede
To touch
Warmth willing
What wishing
Wring me
I’m your song bird
Dead in defeat
Oh the people you’ll meet
This is mostly a collection of poems I’d never share to anyone. Sorry for the imagery. They ought to be read by someone.
Nekron Nov 2018
By the discarded pile, a visible crease of a newspaper shows the grown perceived image of a lost child missing since 2013. Corrugated marks with a small scissor between the lines surround the advert space, as if I was to cut out the description, and put it in a wallet with my other gathered markings of missing people. Perhaps they’d expect me to lift the paper up with one eye, and compare the supposed 25 year old boy with the other souls, shuffling across the metro with their heads down and turned, leaning on the benches sleeping,  and carrying slings and canes and neck braces. What would I do if I was ever to find him? “Michael. Come home. Your mother worries about you so much.”
Certainly I couldn’t pin him. How to find someone who is certainly lost, and may not want to be found. Or long dead, there face strewn in sticks in a bush somewhere, a quiet overdose, or a night to cold, a placid end for an unfortunate, all to long suffering individual. What happens to those who disappear. Their names are whispered, until there grows a time in which no one remembers. I’d like to keep it together, his memory, as my pressing finger traces his face, and I imagine his mind racing out there. I’ll remember the lost, I’ll try, I say to myself as I tear his face from the page and into my pocket. A grandiose and otherwise futile gesture. I’ll keep them all, sure.
Nekron Oct 2018
The destitute encumberance of a recluse, the constant excuse
The solace in solidarity
it’s denial
Of the salience of co-experience

Two birds hanging on a wire
Subject to change.
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