thank god for the dead memory.
thank god, that it died while it was still good.
thank god, that it still resembles something i might’ve prayed for.

thank god, that i prayed for the death i didn’t know.
thank god, that my tears couldn’t well up
for the spring on the other side of your death’s door.
thank god, yours was the first rain that taught me
what umbrellas were.

thank god, that thanking god is such an empty phrase.
thank god, that it won’t grant you afterlife praise.
thank god, you’re now only a picture on a wall.
thank god, the effigies i bear in mind cannot be canonized,
for the things they’ve never done,
and the people they never were.

everyone in the world loses their childhood like a misplaced toy,
swallowed by the gaps in the couch.
putting your hand in, reaching back for it, only gets you *****.
and the lost toy appears in your dream,
like a flaming hero, a powerful swan, a gallant steed.
and you dream of the foe slain by your favourite effigy.
when you wake up, the dream lingers in the morning.
memory of a feeling, a place you could step back into,
if only you found the right path back.
but the dawn never feels the same anymore.
the sun still rises, the fog is still pink,
but you are older now.
and some worlds only exist once.

each night a game of cat and mouse,
the sun rises as i creep into my bed like a louse.

the moon is my lover, i am its knight,
in the suns absence, i am loyal to the night.

the sun flirts with me on the edges of dawn,
but i am not of yesterday, i am no fawn.

and now, the crack of dawn puts me to sleep,
beloved moon, until sundown i leave my heart in your keep.

i don't know how to process grief,
so i pick the memories,
put them in a basket,
like apples plucked from a tree.

there they'll rot, pungent and sweet,
until it ferments,
and then i'll get drunk on the memory.

the rancid cider hardly sates the thirst,
but going down it feels like pins and needles,
and my throat swells with a memory reversed.

my life is a treasure hunt,
waiting for my dowsing rods to meet.

somewhere down the road, you sink into my embrace,
and my arms cross behind your back like they found a spring.

and the water is so sweet.

i should learn *******.

not the spider on the wall,
tenant with no real wherewithal.

not the neighbours sheep,
who make me lose my sleep.

i should learn ******* my brother; anger.

until i learn *******,
my heart's incessant aria
will sing of a mangled furia.

a twist of cain, please guide my hand,
cut everything out wherever you land.

father of ******, i am your son,
don't disown what your faith had won.

the people of loss
have nothing on us,
pillows of unravelling floss.

only the pillow knows,
a pedestal for weakness,
our shared bygones.