Surviving on the myth of a mystic beast,
Fleetingly perishing from sight, a dream.

The remembering of the forgetting,
Never assured, yet always right.

Satiate your being, raise your toast,
Cheers to the weak-willed mob!

Stick out your fangs, out with your soul,
To bear it all in the Above.

A monument is but a rock, feel free to raise one or more,
May they become an avalanche.

Waves come ashore shaping all the minds,
Unlike of carbon, the heart is cotton

As a natural waste I like to regard many things as superior, synthetically of course.
After all, garbage's pride should not be taken lightly.
As proud as medievals would be I sometimes stand corrected and my frail ego yields.
I, in turn, become a material, shaping up,  emanating amazement with my eyes directed to the highs.
Sometime ago already, an elderly lady passed me by on a trail, walking meaningfully, confidently, on four legs, yet higher than any human I've ever considered.
Completely untouchable to me and in a world simply better than my own.
To trek like that through life is the most modest wish of this dead-water trash.

The smell of the sun on wooden panels coated with amber

Mold slowly creeping up the wall, eating word by word, a mind-devouring beast

Summer waiting on winter, winter on summer

Welcoming coldness from the buzzing battlefield outside, fair and even to the finger numbing sensation slowly leaving as flames raise satiated

The trees, holding memories of many lives before, silently judging the vanity of looking up to the stars just to think of mankind.

Growing with the grass, now must be dried out, the roses never took well

All never quite enough, yet always real and all so desirable

Recognizable from afar reality, at times coming a step too close, trying to feed, to survive

Hungry as ever, enclosed in a matchbox

I want to open the window, then I might see all the wonders in all of their grace.
To feel the wind on my shoulder and salt on my face, but the warmth of my home is all that I crave.
With its smell of the rotting, the bed of unrest.
So goodbye my dear window, I will stay a basket case.