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Those words
Are just a part
Of the pieces to
This wilting tower,
My crumbling crows nest
Built of the cracked legos that
I stepped on, again, late last night,
While stumbling to the bathroom,
Only guided by the lightning
From the angry sky outside
The window, trying to get
In and drench me to my
Core, chill me to my brittle
Bones, that are bruised
Enough, get out of
My head, just
Let me
Her words make mighty mountains tremble

You just need a
Moment, to sit and listen
To the noise of the world around
You as the chaos inside of your head
Finally begins to quiet
And watch
The snow

Said it soft and slowly,
With words tantalized and teased me,
Had me hanging on the edge of your twisted blade,
Thought you were here to set me free,
Instead you plucked off all my feathers,
One by one,
Recounting poems of romance and doves,
As you took away my beauty,
And striped away the bone,
With kisses and your wicked teeth,
You bled me out and with malicious might-
Took my heart and fled in the night,
But I am not a feeble creature,
My vigor burns eternally, bright,
My bones mended and my feather grew back,
Black instead of white,
My innocent appearance left to smolder,
My ebony cloak gleams,
Beneath which my scars are seen,
This wicked phoenix is not dead,
But born again from my own sea of red,
As all her words glitter by,
A most beautiful dust in the air,
It feels like she's here again,
Her kind eyes all but a fading memory,
The sound of her voice,
An echo of life,
Silenced to our minds,
Confined to the past,
I wish your time had lasted,
Even just a second more,
Wish I had hugged you just one more time,
But here I am instead,
Staring out the window,
Watching the leaves swirl by,
Cradling your precious words away.
When each meal is smaller then the last,
Your hope fading fast,
Smile faltering,
Armor cracking,
Spirit dying,
Are my hands always cold from the absence of another's hands,
Do they feel like I because that's how I act?
Cold and bitter? Sharp and rigid?
Are they cold because I don't eat right?
Or because I don't do much?
Do my hands feel like ice because I'm sad?
Because every single **** time I'm happy for even a moment I crash back down into the darkest abyss in my mind?
Is the coldness just caused my the weather?
Are they cold because no one cares enough to warm them up?
Or because nobody notices my shivering?
Or simply from poor circulation?
Whisper all your dark secrets to the wind,
Hear her howling vow to guard them 'til she breathes no more
When the roaring winds quiet and the crashing waves subside,
What's left is a silent picture,
A still frame of destruction,
A single image worthy of awe,
When the final chord is strummed and the last beat drummed,
What's left is an eerie silence,
A mental echo of the sounds,
A silent vibration through the air,
When the bright lights burn out and the world starts to slumber,
What's left is a somber mood,
A time to contemplate,
A chance to experience true silence,

Take the time to marvel at the after-image, the absence of sound, the Silence of night,
For actions are only as meaningful as the thought given to them in their Absence.
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