“Love is like a reckless twin; I’m giving in.”
Scandipop on the radio,
The scent of marijuana hanging heavy in the air;
The fruits of my love lie wasted,
Rotting away,
Overripe and burdensome,
And I drink deeply from the sweet pools of wine
That gather where the fruits were bruised,
Either by their lesser fall,
Or their greater failure,
Having been inspected by most,
And rejected by all.

Inside of me lies
A graveyard of dreams derailed,
Mangled hopes,
Broken homes,
Half finished poems
That no one dares to complete,
And all the while,
While these things lie sleeping
Under their stones,
A flower grows where the children
Don’t dare to go,
But I am skilled in the art of savagery,
So I go down by the graveyard
Every few moons,
Settle down where one day
My bones will find their final rest,
I look at the sky,
And I think –
“How great it must be,
To be alive.”

The night was pale and poised on the precipice of perfection;
There was no darkness to speak of,
Just the colors and creations of some wayward artist,
The broad brushstroke of the galaxy
Silhouetted and speckled with distant stars,
Each one a story,
And every one untold.