Train filled my head. Oh, these flashbacks Invading by train into the empty spaces Of my head. Close, Just close my eyes and let flashbacks set in. There is nothing that I can't remember. Can't forget a face whose face will never meet with mine again. Thunderbolts in my dreams. In my dreams. Never seen a warhorse in my dreams, just the sound of dying men and gun smoke. Never seen a world so real, I don't know if I'm dead or not. Through the ashes of my dreams I see the gunner hold my reflection hostage. Train filled my head. Filled my head. When the bombs came down, We let looss. Some of us broke like tea-pots. Some of us blew away into ash. Those who survived were sung to sleep with machine guns. When all was over Through musky smell of war ruble The humans crawled through large puddles of human meat.
That was so long ago, I've grown older and some would say wiser but can't see why I should be entitled to assume that I am not already dead. Oh, These flashbacks invading by train into the empty spaces of my head. Do I climb aboard or just wave to all those lonely souls? Am I just a runaway train? Am I just a runaway train?
The truth is, my heart still flutters with just the sight of you. The truth is, every time the words "I love you" threaten to escape my lips the lump in my throat grows to the size of a softball that I can't swallow. The truth is, I get a tingly feeling throughout my whole body every time you surprise me with the littlest things that I love dearly. The truth is, watching your chest rise and fall with every breath you take as your legs are intertwined with mine makes everything worth it. The truth is, the sound of your raspy morning voice whispering "good morning" to me still gives me chills. The truth is, I guess I'm sort of in love with you but since I could never say any of this out loud, this poem is for *you.
Breathlessly collapsing into oneself. These endless possibilities inspiring a reaction of enlightenment within oneself.
A series of worping light into that which yields the ability to shift time lines like shifting gears on a bike.
Turn right on Death lane.
So Death looked into the soul and set two doves into the eyes. They circled each other: one white, one black.
Yin and yang.
Then Death drew his sythe and bled the doves into the eyes. The blood soaked the eyes and the first mortal human arrived at the gates of this mortal Earth ready for a new chapter in the never ending prophecy.
Taylored pockets fit for the poor. Fit for helpless men wandering lonely and lost. To shove away nostalgia. Incompetent loose bodys trailing willfully into two worlds. One remembered. One forgotten. Spitting dust at winter. This is Deaths sunset. But in the end even Death him self will perish. Buried in bones. Buried in blood as far as an eye can see. Swimming in an ocean of ice That liquidates into darkness. To create a fallout ocean.