Slow piano tunes play out as I walk towards the certainty, this singularity.
My heart heavy, listens to your confession.
"Since when?" I ask, not caring for the answer that I already knew months before.
"Now. Just now."
Grey sepia dandelions flutter, but oh, how beautiful you are still.
"Hi, how does this work?"
Had I known, I would've told you that I didn't know and walked away.
"I don't wanna lie. I can't tell anything but the truth.. it's over."
But, even in this death, you're still so beautiful amongst my molten ashen flowers of love.
Futile, wasn't it? In hoping that you'd stay.
And it made sense.
A purple flower, the red wine, the ashtray, the white flag and me, suddenly so small.
A cruel revelation. And me, still naive.
This bandage.. slowly tearing off my eyes.

She's a cruel mistress.
And I, her constant (slave)
Ashtongue is left on my lips.
And I, her mourner(ing flower)
Shaking my faith with all that she does.
With my hands turning into sand.
These silly notions that she could stay.
I remember her touch. (Pin drop)
Her lips touched mine/d it became melody
With no beginning no end
Sensations
Nerve wracking
Intimate
Killing
Telling

"The End"
I hear the herald of a coming end.
He says, the words that we dread to hear.
The End Of Times.
I see it.
I feel it.
I dread it.
Welcome it.
The days are ending. God forgive me, but I feel sorrow and anguish only.
Bloodline rebellions, the slow descent into madness,
The pain we feel, the pindrop silence.
The investments of sin.
The insurance of damnation.
The Fall of Humanity.

And, for what we fear is here.
And I am the narrator, your king, your jester, and what you are.
Thy kingdom come, and crumble down, for you reap what you sow, and the deeds you did are here to haunt you.
Your words fall on Limbo,
threatening to abandon you to
Violence,
Wrath, and
Treachery,
as I wander about your tapestries,
only to witness your perfect insanity,
draped in the cold molten flowers of love,
smouldering your past memoirs,
extinguishing affection,
igniting anguish,
conflagarating the flesh.
The past is a mirror,
fractured into tiny pieces.
The more you try to fix it,
the more you change from the inside.
Eventually the end result is a bigger hole,
and you keep falling in,
only the hole gets bigger every time you fall in.
It's like kissing the lips of your dead love,
knowing you can never turn back from the choices you've made.
Try as you may, the only choice is to keep moving forward..
Never looking back, nor feeling the exact degree of that
old.. familiar feeling.