There is a silence.
There is a crowd of people.
There is an aching cold.
There is a massive sky.

Chapped hands on bloodied cheeks.
Blue eyes on the yawning sky.
Frozen tears on a pale face.
Fading name on shaking lips.

The bleeding sun sets.
The yawning jaws shut.
The blue eyes flicker.
The fragile heart fails.

The sky begins to fold.
Someone begins to scream.

As the urge
for recognition
increases,
everything you do
begins to lose
meaning,
its sole purpose
being
to derive
gratification
from praise.
You no longer
write for yourself
but,
for the world,
like the courtesan
that dances
only to please
her patrons.
Pressure bears down
on you,
creativity
begins to pull away.
Benchmarks
and standards
restrict you.
You need
constant reminders
that there are
no rules,
that everything
can be challenged,
that it was
inquisition, which
wrought great changes
in the world,
that you are
the master
of yourself
and everyone else
can go
take a hike!

We lied to each other.
And we said we never would.
But the tables have now turned,
And it's all understood.
The lie that caught my eye,
The one we did not see,
Is when we said we'd die without each other.
I without you, you without me.
I think about it often.
And the truth always arrives,
Because you are not dead,
And I am still alive.

I will not write about love.
No sooner than I had you,
Did I lose you;
You chose to go.
You chose,
You chose.
No.
I will not write about love.

No more tendrils,
No more pain.
Just sleep,
shh, just sleep, My Dear.

I beg you,
Do not wake.

I will not speak of love.
To have it,
Yet know nothing of it.
Just murmurs in the night.
Secrets.
I will not speak of love.

*No more hunger,
No more need.
Just sleep,
shh, just sleep, My Dear.