The last time I fell in love with a liar
You warned me of the heartbreak
The tragic disposition of shallow grace
And panicked distaste.
But the truth reserved itself
Somewhere in a goodnight kiss
And the hurt lay hidden in the sleep.
So when the turn of the century awoke
The complacency of goodbyes fell.

There's a secret sorrow
Summoned in pockets of his lost love
for roses and yellow speckled daffodils
The last night she cried he asked her
To fight for a blue moon
Bruised with ashes of failed stars
Caught in methods of paralleled insanity
She whispered things
Long strings of infinity
Phrased into meanings
That made his soft hands cringe
Before yesterday the universe was basic
A long attempt to run the saviors to a purpose
But his last breath
One that edged its way into a sprint
Caught the corner of her world on a purple heart
The end of the hero.

We are the lucky ones if we die old.
But we are the brave ones if we see the world
And the smart ones if we understand it.
We are the kind ones if we appreciate strangers
And the happy ones if we love somebody.
We are the infinite makers of most of our destiny
Because we are human.
So let it be.

Somewhere in the world invisible time ticks by
Invincible from the last blind eye
She catches a breath from some hiccup in the night
And she worries that it was his last fight.
For a boy caught in the middle of the moon
He speaks fast
Feared for a pricked heart
That leads a version of an irrational life.
Swung in the beginnings of a father
Who lost his wrath on a beautiful daughter
Forgotten from a cold lie
That hid on the bottom of a sometimes sorrow.

Wrinkled face
Stands in the shuttered photograph
Pierced into the frame by winds of faded shame
The mother comes in cold from the dirt that spiced her soul
And she whispered to the brother to find a time to cry
For once upon a time began that day
The lives that were marked with protests and riots
Define the fairytales
We now live in a world with silent voices and whispered requests

Hands made of delicate necessities
hovered in pockets of sauntered gratitude
Cold expression - hate that phrase –
too generic for a girl of 16.
Man made of hostile intentions
wrapped in a worn face of 32 years
gently staring at the blue moon
****** with the desire of washed off anger.
Cries of impeccable distaste run through the air
whip her hair into her mouth
spits all too precariously into the manmade dirt.
It's supposed to make sense - this - this war
the bodies - buried – breathing
half awake with the intention of survival,
of listening,
of passing on some kind of importance
to some menace of a next generation.
She catches herself in a hiccup of solitude
The man watches the blue moon
It's supposed to mean something - the blue moon
supposed to make you think,
want something,
understand the unknown,
understand why there is fighting,
why her brother is dead.
But a blue moon means nothing to a cold face.
Split amongst anger
Run past the world
Fall down
Carelessly
No. Not carelessly.
Purposefully.
Some kind of purpose –
just keep telling yourself this. Please.
Anger.
Can't waste that emotion.
Not on her. Not on this. Not on him.
Silence.
It's too maddening. Too loud.
In all of its soft intentions.
So scream. Why can't you?
It will break up the world, even if it is only your own.
Drown yourself in it.
But you know how to swim.
Well, make yourself forget.
But you can't.
Because there is something about survival that is inherently good.