The words of broken hearted cherubs who've lost the want and will to live
fill these halls with sounds of sorrow, as if sad's the only song there is

Can you see Hyperborea's sun, shadowless
valleys where you cut word with tooth?
An unfettered wound stutters, blowing null what
timeless utterance it will.
Where does tomorrow sleep, your prospect in
stomach, cramped with fluxing zeros and ones?
As soon as you spoke your abstraction was pardoned.
Your home's abutted geography made its revolving
bally.
Dizzy you, concentric circles closing in, advising their
babe press forth.
Mythopoetically proud as hell of your circuit, a
metaphysical luminary midwifed in an etheric
manger.
Shadows mark their growth about our encampment--
G*d's peripheral nomads etching story.
Shelter bids welcome, unwelcome everywhere...its
doors blow about as the literature of distances.

She looked more alive
dangling from the edge
than she ever had resting
in the lap of luxury.

He fell in love,
With the idea of her.
But he realized too late
that ideas aren't people
and they never do
what you expect.
People aren't things to dream about.
People are imperfect beings
And they don't fit into
Your misunderstood notions.
Foolish ideas, foolish emotions,
Now he's her fool,
Juggling his own life
For her entertainment.