Small prayers muttered in discreet whispers,
are softly spoken inquietudes said in reverse.
It's the Cynic, the pathological saint
sliding into my thoughts.
come anew and ready to live again.
my mind lacks any real estate to be reminded of any  once past reflection.
memory has failed me,
and thorns have surrounded me.
And here is where i've found myself.

sunken, defeated by nihilism
left alone with a beacon
a new friend,
with a new tune
whistling attraction.
packaging fight,
telling stories of grandeur
saying bloom,
like a flower, bloom
like two lovers roosting in on each others noses;
celebrate the end of a road
and the beginning of a new one.