He sighed a sigh of relief.
He had wailed on his death.
His own death.
A death of a misanthrope.
He was born once more.
Like a phoenix, he rose
from his own tears,
And turned into an
angel.

Normalcy is a strange word.
No definition is certain and
allowed to be called “normal”.
Differs in different lands.
And never asks for
Hate to come in its absence.
And no-one can seem to fulfil it.
Normalcy seems like a dream far away,
in a distant land that is strange.
Sometimes,
I wonder if anyone is normal.
If not,
Normalcy is perfection.
We strive for it.
And we practice diligently.
And fail to achieve it wholly.
Yet we find normalcy
that is perfection partially.

Candles blow.
They die out.
The fire does
and consumes the candle with it.
The fire was the highlight.
Now it’s gone-
And the candle
suddenly lost its worth and value.
It now lays grief-stricken
And attached to the floor.
Refusing to let go
of their places in the show.
It let illumination enter our world.
And now it’s dead.
We scrape its place from the floor.
Scraping away at its existence.
For this one now and forevermore.

Words aren’t spoken.
Words aren’t written.
They are felt.
Words are unknown.
Words are dead.
Until we come to terms with them.
Words are heavy.
Sometimes bold.
To speak is an art
that everyone fails.
****** by words is wretched more.
But they can heal.
They eventually do.
Tend to wounds as no-one can.
Oh words can bring to life
and send to sleep
a person’s nightmare or dream.