You'll find ashes in the keys
from when I burned to stop the bleed,
and you can choose to think of me
but I know you won't.
When you go to say you're sorry,
I hope you don't.

It's thrilling and it's terrible,
it's wondrous while unbearable:
the piquing mind which seeks to find
the riddle in the parable.
Just when you think you've caught a glimpse,
your eyes will make a trick of it.
Elusive and seducing up until you have to blink again.

Seeking out solutions
to all of the wrong problems.
Powerless to the hourless,
oh, how could you hope to solve them?
Traverse the universe
like it is yours
for the unwrapping--
the only thing
of anything
to ever free its trappings.

A specious speculation
to a quiet congregation,
got you searching your thought corridors--
all you see is already yours.
If you're thinking life post-mortem
could be anything but boredom:
Try to think again.
Create your own Eden.

When what is real is relative,
and yours is unlike mine,
could you say how well I live?
Your virtue is my crime.
Traverse the universe
like it is yours
for the unwrapping--
the only thing
of anything
to ever free its trappings.

It's thrilling and it's terrible,
it's wondrous while unbearable:
the piquing mind
which seeks to find
the riddle in the parable.
Traverse the universe
like it is yours
for the unwrapping--
the only thing
of anything
to ever free its trappings.

Hope for you
is shattered.
Unflattered,
unimpressed.
Bit more than you
could chew
and so
you swallowed whole
the rest.
A year,
now in regression.
An obsession
would begin.
All my words
were yours to keep
when they escaped
the pen.

The events that transpired
occured as written.
Our mouths and neurons fired,
seeding flowering unmention.
Fuel and fire brought attention
to a subtle, growing tension.
The events that transpired
occured as written.

A predictable reaction
to words written
caused the changes, gaining traction
among smitten.
An explosive interaction
between palpable attractions--
predictable reactions,
just as written.

Burned it to the ground,
as it was written.
The lost was found
and lost again, in stark and wry omission.
Quiet was the mission
born of wavering disposition.
It burned into the ground
as it was written.

Back to where we started,
all reversibly departed.
The events that transpired
occured as written.

Well, no.