How do i feel right now?
Death seems to be like an eternal wave violently sweeping over people whom I care about. While the nights are getting lighter, life seems to be getting darker. It will pass, I am sure, though I fear death now more than ever. Not to myself, but to those near, those whose lives are real, tangible things which can be touched and which touch other things. Maybe I am being selfish fearing death, a fear which should not belong to me, for I am not in such a morbid swamp of torment like my friends I am, after all, lucky. But for how long?

What do they all mean anyway?
These screens which flicker, spit
and hiss in front of our very own
eager blind eyes. Convincing you
that apathy breathes without remorse,
from the posters, and the stars brightening
up your dark dark sky. Hysterically attached
to an insipid oil running through our
streets and into the fields of a by-gone
era of vital detachment.
As clouds thicken, and pellets
of blood fall from the sky, dare
not to look away from these screens
who absorb you while your many
mothers die outside.

It seems that I have reached an age,
where death follows me, that
all consuming shadow wreaking havoc
to those I love - why? I ask in vain,
knowing that no answer lies behind
the thickening morbid fog of
tomorrow. He does not exist, and ****
all of you who dares say he does,
that vile creature spitting blood
onto ashen faces then expecting
my knees to bend in fear - I can't
take this anymore.

How many words
will you devote to me,
- if any at all?

A feeble etch into cold stone,
a measly trench encapsulating my past,
where ice lingers on cold November
mornings, a distant and futile scar.

Prove me a fool, then
I shall dine at your table.
But my mind has not
been as oppressed by
the heavy weight of
sanity's absence,
as you would have liked.

I can see through your
windows, there are no
silk curtains like you
desire and crave, a guise
to hide what really
goes on in the darkness
of your deeply worrying mind.

You think of me as a
wounded deer, who dared
to stare for too long,
helplessly strewn across the side
of your road, carrying vehicles
quickly along to better places.

That long instructing finger
of yours, points to billboards
who say that I can be someone,
live the lives of those I see
behind a glass shield, so much
more fragile than you think.

I am content atop my fort,
while my foundations may
be small, they are stronger
than ignorance and folly,
and I do not preach to ants
to reach heights only to fall
back down into a dust of your dirt.

I will never dine with you,
and I will never come knocking
at your door, as I am sure that
one day your idiot soldiers
will see behind the canvas of
mistrust.

Lay with me now,
under a blanket of
our entwining sighs,
and watch the sun
slide up in front of us,
oblivious to what its absence
had given birth to.