We mourn our final expiration
                         never realizing,

That we were decaying from
                       our very first..

Dilapidation upon a
                         very first breath..

Dying from the moment we were born.

The innocence of a fur darker than
any onyx, yet fur was softer than any silk,
woven upon a abomination of existence.

           The purr was a melody of paper cuts,
bleeding its victim unto a sleep of deathly
peace, but they had an alternate motion.

For when the lacerations on the mind
seeped the illusion of slumber did true
intensions manifest and it did feed..

                  It would kiss upon the lips,
inhaling not breath but life, tasting it
deeply, it purred as what was youthful
now cradles in the lullaby of death.

         But there were a litter of ravens
calling of bereavement, each purring on
this night. Their melody sinking the living
in to the purgatory of nothingness, till
these felines expelled their gift.

         The pumpkins that with every exhale
lit some what brighter, till they were full.
The gateway was open for that of otherworldly
desires breathed through orange flesh.

A smile once inanimate now had life,
              Where once only a head once looked,
now over oak bones did the flesh of orange
spread. Where just a light of candles lingered
slowly been extinguished,
           Thought became clearer, as a cats melodic
meows did sing to this moment that it had inhaled.

When all was consumed features changed,
orange became like subtle tan. And with wide eyes
open it breathed its first breath. Blinking upon
existence, now vacant hollows glimmer.

                It looked down, seeing its subordinate.
They were linked from this day, for if this nights
creation were to be injured, the breath of another
taken by its onyx cat could heal.

But if this cat ever passed the road of death,
then what had been gifted with others moments
would be but inanimate once more.

           A pumpkin with a shattered smile dead...
But the worst is yet to come for if those years weren't
used up. Then life would be returned from once it
was stolen, and the buried scream loudly.

But when your buried no one hears your screams
but the dead.. And if for ones cremated, have you
ever heard the wind scream..
         So this little kitten is the life of every pumpkin,
filled with the fleeting moments of life.

And you'll always see a lightly tanned man stoking
his cat on the porch but watch his smirk..
For a pumpkin is only as good as its smile.
And when he does it lingers of inhaled death...

Linen sheets smelt like
                                  summer

As I hung there silently...

Though you are not near,
                             I feel you in the walls,
I never noticed the ripples,
the effigy of your features peering
underneath the veil of silhouettes,
that contort to the yearning of you.

I push my palm against the wall,
and sense a migration of tangibility
as though you were
                                  intrusive on this world.
but poignant features I read like brail.

I slumber nights on the cold floor, eyes
eclipsing the days. But I gaze at you,
never seeing but I know your
                                         beneath my skin
with your gaze. I see only ripples of
my yearning, I hit out at the wall that
keeps you from me and it bleeds.

My heart descends into oblivion knowing
your within my reach, I want to contort
this paper into  
                         origami effigies of you.
But I will wait till my draping's are tattered
to feel you upon my paper skin flesh.

Write upon me your yearning, I recline
on the walls of his memory waiting for
it to sense my thirst...
                                 drowning in silence.
But as I fade into the grasps of a shallow grave,
I feel you upon my flesh pulling me within and
we are one, I'm just bones behind a wall of memories.

Cover me in petals so
that the falling of my
body smells like perfume.

Not the hues of deaths
aroma, let me be in my
state, buried in colour.

For I'm but a petal that's
fallen, and so others cover
my decay in there beauty.

Ash fell like twisted snowflakes distorted
from tome stone clouds, children were playing
outside unaware to the ruination descending .
Collecting this abomination of clouds above.

Amassing the needed amount, collecting
it with others as heavy than the white stuff.
But collectively they made each one, dead branches
hung as limbs of fallen life hanging loosely.

Each was a distortion of the other, as each child
coughing under showers of grey flakes...
Eyes were broken bottles glassed into there features
Smiles more of teeth, small rocks falling like hail above.

As each on looked upon there creation, on there knees
admiring each's snowman of grey hues. They stayed
their  breath was concrete, Imamate like snowmen
coverings of ash collected upon there silence.

They fell beneath there snowmen, like tombstones
silently adoring there creators. Buried beneath the
tears of an angry heaven. the snowmen awkwardly
smile. Silence collects as death is buried by clouds.

Wax is like blood seeping
from the core of my being.

Dare I cut deep within the
crimson till it weeps deeply.

The flame gouges on the body,
gouging on its flavours.

Tears descend until the body is
but pools of what lingered before.

The aspiration was to overturn the  
hurt they collected upon my pain,
every time was like an original painting.

Blended with anticipation of seeing the  
last words grieving their deeds. But all
actions speak more than any words. I'm
depleting from their exhausted pleading,
everything is a moment of our dead reflections.

Cleaving the carcass of another addition,  
under the skies will they be food for
thoughts of others to feed upon. A new
slave to the elements, they will decay.

Don't they realize I'm doing a service?
ensuring the blade is fed, steel needs warmth
every time its buried its feels there life elope,
p*enetrating deeper than a soul weeping.

Driving along then a heard a murmur and the
hairs on my neck crept up,
                                                I looked behind.....

Seeing myself in the back seat, "Don't turn around,
I reacted in fright, I angled my view to see
                                                           nothing before my eyes?

Swinging back, I saw lights eclipsing in my sight,
then the impact. I awoke up in the back seat, the force
had severed me from my seat, I was disembowelled.

As my life bled out I looked in the rear view mirror
seeing myself
                        I said
                                 *"Don't turn around,

When the sun slumbered beyond the falling
horizon, a deranged mentor of those it wondered
over below. False expressions were given in tribute
to that which watched with acidic smiles of their  
persecution beneath its gaze.

In its fading they were collected in truest outline.
Negatives of perceived imaginings, pigmentation
descended from form like coloured petals
turning to dust. They were the abattoirs of this
now discoloured imaginings.

Sweetened voices of lullabies were replaced by
disorientated shrills, that reverberated within
the halls, they lumbered in there contorted abodes.
Nesting into corners of despair that blossomed on
them with hues of isolation.

Feasting on warm carcasses, weeping with
trepidation at this momentary freedom they felt.
There home of tattered souls that were cleaved
from prey, no peace in death. They hang at
the windows clinging to lost hope.

Time was a nine tailed mistress that whipped them
into the binding once more. For the arising was upon
them, they were lacerated within colour once more.
All that was flaked away and became as it was.
Smiles on there faces paying tribute to that above.

When I look over
my shoulder
all I see is a star
shining through
a dark hole
and hear a strange sound
like wind crying out
through the trees
or the creaking
of limbs
a dark shape
passing over the moon
like an omen
of a mad woman
I once knew
a ghost ship
spreading her legs
like a cross
arms reaching out
her name lost
to my memory
something that sounds
much like my doom.

And in the cool, drifting abyss of all lost things,
I find you.
You who are affected by the world's discontent,
who watched through penetrating, yet clear eyes--
everything fall apart, underneath the disguise of
impeccable clothes
and red (or black) lipstick--
you who watched the light dance in people's eyes
and tried to determine whether
they were illusions or not,
you who remembered
how it felt to be free for the first time,
standing tall in the clear, cold water and basking in your pain, but daring someone to drown you--
while you learned to breathe.
You who felt love
radiating throughout your body and mind,
how when you looked at her, you saw stars with muffled shines
and the ghosts of a different universe--
you reached out and touched her, gave her your words
drifting across the dark, rigid screen
bursting it like a single drop, forming rapid ripples--
and someday, the truth will come out
how when we're all alone, and the world is drawing to a close
underneath all the pretenses
and the hidden solitary pain,
you will draw out that cigarette full of stars, and let the ashes of a lost world's dreams be carried through the wind,
riding on the smoke of despair--
riding on a soul,
never shattered.