First words carved from stone.
Chips fly and sting when they bite
Cheeks and forehead and forearms,
Tiny welts, hard to see, but they're still there.

Later words moulded from grey, colourless clay.
Too wet and hesitant and sticky to hold a form.
They want to slump again into an unformed mass
Like the one from whence they came.

Words scraped now in hard-packed, ****-bound soil,
Each requires pulling and tearing to take the slightest form.
A rain comes before the phrases could all be scraped together,
The concrete-like surface quickly softening into mud
Soon it's as if they were never said at all.

Impulse; thrills.
Dark silent chills.
Cold whispers, stills.
Waiting; still.

still constantly trying
to find out if there is at all
more depth to
this mind of mine

this body
these fears
these vices

products of a
two dimensional way of life

the cause of constant
mortal strife

but I suppose if I
so
desperately want
to know

then there is hope for me yet

an ocean of being
that I float unconsciously above

driftwood that smiles

maybe there's hope for me yet

Losing me, that's what you're going to do,
When I'm done,
Turmoil will ensue,
With much regret, I shall be gone,
The egret of much regret, will cruise into the setting sun,
Falling sunset, drowning in the horizon,
As we fail,
Will you appreciate, evaluate what you have lost,
Maybe what I have won,
The sun, will she ever rise again?