The air escapes me—

As darkness envelops the night,
I shut my eyes, haunted by
The vision
Of ropes
Swaying from the ceiling
      Above.

With each glance,
A constriction
Tightens
Around my throat, a
Chilling
Reminder of
despair.

Our lives resemble relics nestled within the dusty corners of
thrift shops, all drawn to these forsaken treasures that others
have overlooked. We take turns giving upon these forgotten
items a renewed affection, a fresh perspective on their worth.

For we are all broken at times, displayed for sale in the hopes
of rediscovering our inherent value, yearning to feel complete
once again. Our hearts linger in the temporal marketplace
of time, where faded dreams gather dust, and past loves
accumulate the remnants of emotions once so vibrant.

Each of our sorrows lies like a heap of tattered garments,
heavy with the weight of our experiences. We observe as
the masses pick us, some to elevate our spirits, while others
seek to let us down.

I find solace among other hidden treasures, awaiting the
discerning gaze that can recognize my true worth; indeed,
our lives resemble relics nestled within the dusty corners
of thrift shops.

I am in the depths of memory, where we place our full trust –
By the spreading branches, shaking off their dust
Past reflections of fury, all the moments coming to pass,
As the stain of my smile is this visage in each glass
Pale lips still whisper, as these eyes devoid of light –
Wondering about myself; if my will is still bright.

Lord, at a journey's close, where will my spirit dwell,
Will my memory become the tales that they’ll softly tell,
In twilight's after glow, what echoes will I hear,
Be it love and laughter shared throughout the years?

Where time stands still, and you feel truly whole;
Is this truly a familiar place for one's lost soul?
Dying a mirror to reflect on all the moments, never lost –
Forged memories, of all the paths we’ve once crossed.

Letting my nightingale heart serenade away the night,
A melody that lingers, pure and bright.
With every note, it mourns the dance of death,
Though heavy hearts may bear the weight of pain,
Its song will rise, a balm for every strain.

Life is circular, even for those untouched by the realms
of faith or spirituality— every moment secular. Let us exalt
the fervour of true commitment, warn the youth against the
allure of materialism — my attempts of such were a mere tip
of advice, too blunt for those who didn’t own sharpeners.

I see of the stillness and shadows, that leaves drift silently,
nameless in the breeze; they grow increasingly embarrassed as
they succumb to decay. Yet, from the **** talk of human chatter,
the refuse of their speech can still be turned into the fertile ground
from which life may sprout. Even as the curtains descend on the
grand performance, the essence of existence continues to unfold
in the shadows, a narrative the world may never truly grasp.

Close your eyes and let your heart sketch the tableau—fold your
arms to spare the world further anguish; as the youth, armed with
lessons from their screens, race onward. They'll drive forever, though
forever is not a human art — lovers whisper, “I’ll love you forever,”
yet the cracks remain of one’s broken heart.

Let us pay tribute to the hour’s accord; strike a chord like a pact—
though not one forged in Lucifer’s handshake, bartering your soul
for a fleeting piece of existence in this world. Raise your sword,
sun-kissed and gleaming—this pen that can colour the world in
vibrant hues, a dream so vivid, yet never forget the wildness of
this realm; humanity resembles a chaotic zoo.

You and I – companions, yet at times adversaries,  
we are akin to the stubborn clash of oil and water:  
elements repelling one another, yet bound inextricably,  
Unable to sever the ties that bind us, no matter how  
tainted our love may appear with each utterance of devotion.  

“I THINK I’m in love,” a phrase that sends shivers down
the spine, as daunting to voice as it is to ponder; a relentless
battle within oneself, questioning the authenticity of such feelings.  

“Do they feel some kind of way?” becomes the haunting
echo in our minds, as we yearn to be known as “us.”

Yet, while “Us” dances seductively in our thoughts,  
a luscious word, what of the truth that resides within our hearts?

“What echoes in the void of a gun's chamber, poised at the head”
– the silencing of their countless voices howling within.
“What are the last words of a crimson blade caressing one’s throat”
– a haunting cutaway to a life now severed.
“What feeling envelops a lifeless body sprawled upon the floor”
– nothing but cold.

Does one merely attempt to compose their own funeral songs
– or weep a solitary tear for their own end, blinding themselves to
the haunting shadows of regret that herald their own downfall?
Does a fish, in a frantic bid for survival, strive to weep itself back
into existence, the moment it leaps from the depths, only to find
itself stranded? Are you familiar with the image of love's belly,
once alive with butterflies, now a dead man ensnared in a net?

The haunting questions of suicide linger like a ghostly whisper.
Can the choice to surrender to death ever truly unveil the answers
we seek? Do the celestial realms bear witness to our torment, or do
the infernal fires rejoice, growing ever fiercer with each soul they
claim?

Alas, it is only the departed who possess the knowledge of such
truths, and I shudder at the thought of being the one to unveil
such an answer myself...

Whisper the depths of the night— as angelic wrath burns away
at my soul, consuming me in a tempest of alienation, a spectre
unseen; - out of sight; I've lost my mind to my sanity that slips
through my fingers. Where, I ponder, if the appearance of a
grotesque smile will find its place in this so to claim, “beautiful
world?” I remain oblivious to the value of my treasures; until
the very essence of what I cherished fades into oblivion.

Direct my heart toward the doorway; what purpose lies in this
revelation — exposed to the harsh truth of humanity's rawness,
akin to the crude oil extracted to nourish our existence, fuelling
this artificial journey we call life.

The intellect of this age is only but artificial; what is cherished in
these times is only but superficial, fracturing the essence of love
we ought to share. For what is called to be love divided among
us, swiftly reveals the stark truth that all are not treated equal.
Casting shadows on the bonds that should unite us.

We are divided by this so-called love.