Have they changed their color?
Has the odious gray fog seeped and sweat across his eyes silently concealing resentment for you?
Has his eyebrows quirked and scorned at your words, has his mouth flexed against the fiery brush?
Have pupils swelled catastrophically into black holes denying the mind of order, rampant with chaos?
Have the monsoons of desire crushed your sanity,
Has she tainted your memories with splintered, broken glass?
Has your conscious been deflated, slashed by the deceiving hands of a love so massive it crumbled the earth below you!?
Have the waters of that sorrow drenched your clothes and sloshed the mud of years of mental clenching, under your bare toes?
If this be true, how come you stand ignorant on the roofs of your drowning houses crying for the birds to sing to you, only to have the vultures screeching down apon you,
"Why did you scare them all away" ?
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Do you understand now?
You may reside in this land of debris and trash and broken things, but tis your home you will wallow in.
To live in places of this kind, where the sun doesn't shine and the birds don't sing, is on your own doing,
your own catastrophe, your own problem.
Your own problem.
I can guide you, but only you can rebuild you.
This is my last stop,
I'm done riding your manic train of thought.
I cannot give to those who chase after storms,
for the eye of the storm is,
and always will be
a placid façade surrounded in death.
©Dylan Christopher Whisman
For a friend, who knows who he is.
I wish all of you humans a wonderful week.