the only way i know how to touch the sky
is through the ribs of the dead.

remember that this will be over before a second hits the ground. remember that suffering is an ephemeral little thing. a little wren of ash. already broken before it even hatches. it will pass. like another storm. another falling tear.

a song shouts
as I run atop the tip of death,
in all its paltry fiction.
reality spins itself into one bright dream
alone, underneath infinite hope.

rain never reaches
the warmth in the windows
and darkness can't touch this dancing soul
yet

I peer out the porthole into the chaos of the storm,
Disorder, my sole companion

Blue waves crash along the jagged rocks
sprays of melancholic gloom
the wind howls
sounding like the ghosts of past memories
decayed wooden decks rotting from
the salty air
a wailing gust originates from the rusting iron of the ships hull
a hex is placed on it’s journey as the shadowy vessel tears through
the gloomy waters of its past

The past is only a memory,
as I find myself once again in the company of madness