We are martyrs of deaths breath,  
       concussive retribution for living
in the light of decay.
Matter is a virus of consumption,
           exhausting the filaments
of extended fulfilment that will never
                                             be quenched.

But death is the saviour of existence,
      collecting on the overture of a
living rhythm, what sang to loudly
         now nullified beyond continuality.


The martyr did linger in disparity
       for life was a creation, but existence
is but greed. So let all ponder the
          expenditure of self and repercussions
of what existence brings to all.
             Death isn't an enemy,
its the saviour of existence.
Coalescing the need for continuity.

I was lying in bed
The covers ****** me in.
Into a deep black void
Where time's an illusion
There was nothing there
No sounds or visions to be seen
Existence is false,
There is no I or even me.

Lie to me.
Please for the sake of my sanity.
For my delicate beating heart.
Tell me that you still love me.
Even if it’s a lie, I don’t want to lose you just yet.
Reassure of me of your undying feelings.
Of your beautiful soul that still cares for mine.
Please, please tell me you still love me.
Just one more time, just for one more night.

Meet you downstairs right?
For Friday night adventures, and Saturday morning breakfasts.
Where did it all go?
How did it all vanish like smoke drifting upwards from a tear in the hatch?
I thought that maybe in some alternate timeline,
That we were going to be the perfect match.
I refuse to believe that I’m mistaken, I’m afraid to be.
Terrified really.
My stomach falls to floor, as I sort through the letters
That you sent to my hotel.
Where did that love go?

Say something, or don’t, I suppose.
Is it really that hard? I’m not quite sure I understand.
How is so easy for you to deceive me
and leave me completely stranded and lonely?
I thought you were so gorgeous when
Those words fell from your mouth.
I knew that every single one was
Dipped in deadly poison.
But it didn’t matter in the slightest.
I was determined to interpret your words as truth.
I would believe in whatever you were to say to me,
In some ways it was dangerous. I agree
The way that I was so toxically
And completely dependent on your existence.

The person I used to be,
No longer needs your false histories
But lies cold and empty
Alone, but looking back,
Honestly, it’s preferable
To the company
Of someone like you,
Someone who’s callous and heartless
And above all
A liar.

You forget my name
I’ll say it, spell it out, write it down
Repeat that same two-syllable word
You’re quick to forget
Flowers are pretty little things
And all their names must blur together
For you, who cannot speak their language

When matter reflects on itself,
consciousness materializes
into something more tangible
and realizes all of existence
is floating above its head.

Matter turned and governed
by gravity’s hands.
Spun and pulled by
creative fingers,
shaped into round colorful bodies and
tossed into blackness
to dance alone.

Some are given partners,
little moons to set their mood,
to spin their silvery light around them
and sing their songs at night
to put their children to sleep.

Some stay awake for the song,
some watch their slow dance,
and some look up at the milky sky and
wonder if matter thinks about them back.