An architects influence, extends only as far
As his lifetime
Although sculpted buildings may last well beyond
A single life
They are but toys for the times
Repurposed and retooled until
It carries nothing but shadows of it's origin
What should have been a schoolhouse
Could soon become a prison
What should have been a church
Would soon become a business
And in a backwards and cruel way
There is an odd sort of beauty in this
Because life is just a series of
Would have been, should have been, and could have been
That didn't.

You know, I would like to call this a poem
But really all it feels like is bleeding.
Like the flood that pumped through me is,
Wasted.
And trust me,
That hurts.
When I think of all,
I can't help but cringe.
Because somewhere in the between I lost the pieces of my puzzle,
That I was really looking for.
And that the love that I etched so carefully
Into the lines of your face
Ticked backwards, like a forgotten clock,
At his mention.
For you, I connected constellations in your freckles,
As though there was some kind of system of finding my
Way in this labyrinth that I know so well.
I found oceans of depth in those eyes,
That promised me salvation in happiness
That promised love in loss.
Although I have learned,
That when you explore too deep
It is easy to become lost.
The bleeding isn't a pattern,
There is no rhyme to this reason,
Only treason and tragedy.
So excuse the torrent,
Because I've already drowned in the flood.
Remember when flowers grew in the garden?

Red is your color, never blue or gold.
My finish is never met with hollers or cheers, simply silence.
And not of the reverent sort, the sort of clammy, piteous, and overbearing silence.
Not the quiet that is shared in the company of friends or lovers. Never that.
My place on the podium will only raise me a foot or two.
From where I am standing the stars seems so **** far.
My "Participant" ribbon lies crumpled in-between my fingers.
And the ever present "I'm so sorry, good try" is meted out with each conciliatory apology.
But this isn't the first time, and I know it won't be the last.
That'll I will take second place in this race.
But really, how could I ever really want to win,
When I can barely get people to acknowledge me.
It would be a miracle if they started to cheer.
Did I mention I don't believe in miracles?

Everyone grows up learning to lie.
They fill in the spaces where we can't find the words.
They substitute for the stories we never made.
They shield those we love from all the hurt in the world.
So I guess I don't feel too bad about living a few lies.
Despite the wounds they left never really healing over.
I could blame him and her for them, but what is the point.
They happened, there they are on my skin, for all to see.
No use in tears, those won't change anything.
But the best I can do is grit my teeth and bear it.
The time for strength will be for later.
And I wouldn't look back if I was stronger,
But then again Orpheus was just a man too.
So call me a pillar of salt, or a push over.
But I lost, and it hurts.
I finished last again, and I think that adage might have more truth to it than I thought.

And I suppose that it is funny,
in a macabre sort of way
how we all forget the tale of Prometheus.
He who thought to bring gods level with men,
with a simple gift.
Yet his gift was one with no equal.
He gave mankind fire, that in turn gave us life,
and with life comes love, compassion, humanity.
But what did he recieve in return?
Thanks to his act of love
for his adopted progeny,
Prometheus was chained to a rock, destined
to die once every day.
His instestines,
set to be disgested by an eagle once a day.
His pain unrivaled,
for his original sin shed
light on our existence.
And for this, we write no songs,
we hold dear no poems,
we hallow no ground.
His flames gave birth to us,
and here we are,
choking on our own arrogance and hate.
So I suppose, that
in a sense Prometheus was the first nice guy,
who finished last.
Because being the Prometheus,
means there shall be no songs sung of you,
no poems written for you,
and you will be eclipsed by others.
Your deeds will go unloved,
your accolades will go unnoticed.
The world is a mean place,
and however cruel it is,
sometimes being and doing right
gets you nowhere.

The pursuit of perfection has always confused me
Everyone striving to become more than themselves
And while this sounds very noble
It really boils down to
"Enough is never Enough"
Because in this endless race to become everything
We forget what it was like when we were something
So we trudge forward ignorant of our passing joys
Only aware of our seemingly constant suffering
And suddenly, without warning
We find ourselves lacking in what matters most
Too often we find ourselves hating, loathing, depressed
Because we realized we failed to achieve what we sought
When really all we ever needed
Was to look inside ourselves
And discover that it is not our weaknesses that made us imperfect
But that our broken bits and flaws
Made us into something
More

Vines creep
where memories once lived
Flowers bloom
where lips once locked
Sapling takes root
where a heart once beat
Soil smothers
where words once spilled
Grass tangles
where fingles once fumbled
Ivy chokes
where eyes once gazed

It seems to be the
End of the road