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What did I expect?
To leave a haemorrhage
of violets wherever I walked?
No. A lost son is called prodigal.
A lost daughter is just called lost.
I was adopted
dna like a mutt
at least I'm wanted
Empty me out
blood,
to the floor.

Open my veins,
hung from the door.
I go so long my mind and heart ******* in knots,
Remind me God of all the things i forgot!
You are my savior, my helper, my redeemer, my king
On you i can depend, give all the struggle, your praise i sing!
I don’t have to carry the weight of the world.
It’s not my job to volley all thats been hurled.
You see me where i am in the midst of the storm.
This chaos and anxiety does not have to be my norm.
You want me to give my heart completely to you. Trust your lead. Instead i am often lost in the thorns causing my soul to ache and bleed.
You say,”Cast your cares upon me, trust, release”. You flood my mind and heart with your comfort and peace.
Help me to keep this posture kneeling at your feet, trusting in your love no need to retreat.
Low horizon sun
Slips across a polished floor
February sky
Good days
Bad days
The line is thin
Emotions have dried
There eating
You within.

Let me back in
I’ve done
nothing wrong
Let me back in
It’s where I belong.

I’ll sit on the floor
Outside your door
A week
A month
Even a year
Your worth
The fight
I love you
My dear.

Why you are like this
I do not know
Your sunshine is there
Please let it glow.
Let me back in
I’ve done
nothing wrong
Let me back in
It’s where I belong.
We are not survivors.
we are residue.

the soot that lingers
on collapse's last tongue.

entropy's loiterers—
spiteful, unfinished.
neurons in feedback.
systems with no gods.

the architects left
when the scaffolds imploded.
we cradle their blueprints
like scripture in ash.

rebuild?
with what breath?
with what myth?
our dreams are famine-shaped.

nirvana is a severance package.
emptiness sold
in velvet robes.
a silence that never asked
about wreckage.

so we sharpen our vowels.
scribe ruin in elegy.
chant hymns for dead logics.
leave witness marks
in the marrow of this glitch.

we were not chosen.
we remained.
“Failure Spiral // Witness Marks” is a blistered fragment from the edge of philosophical exhaustion — a poem that resists salvation with surgical precision. Cast in scorched economy, it unspools a mythic post-mortem of civilization, depicting a world not built but inherited — a residual loop of cascading failures mistaken for history.

The voice is not that of a prophet, but of an archivist trapped in recursion — mapping entropy with a cartographer’s detachment and a poet’s poison. In this world, survivors are no more than loiterers of meaning, spectral stewards of systems that have outlived their gods.

There is no crescendo, only a ritual of reckoning. Each line is a witness mark — the scorched etching of presence, absence, and the irreparable fracture in between.
Spring comes
And I find myself fond of fall.
Summer dawns
And I admire more winter.
Fall arrives
And I cherish spring newly.
Winter blossoms
And I appreciate summer more clearly.
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