You owe me nothing but to breathe.
To remember how I tore my heart in
Two rendering a
Blood Eagle to stretch its wings and
Tickle our souls with its sticky feathers.
When I think of us, I see us as we were.
Other people than now.
Memories framing themselves like a
Fantastic painting the artist
Stepped back to admire, then died.
*Hang me. Hang me before i hang
Myself.*
Dramatically opposed to drama.
Uninterested infatuation.
Broke billionaire.
Mortal gods shaking divine hands
With decomposing composers,
Thanking them for the silence.
We were lovers and enemies, and
I'd still give my life and afterlife to
See you worship another as if I
Never left a fingerprint on this
Planet; resting as safely in arms that
Love you unendingly,
As we all lie sleeping; dreaming
In our own, stronger arms,
Forgetting that even our loving
Is imaginary.
Death is awakening.
Rubbing the
Eyes of our souls and yawning,
We look up and smile at that which
All of this is a bleak and fleeting
Shadow of.
Plato knew.
When I wish to die, I do too.
This love is not Love.
It's all mud and air.
You owe me nothing but to breathe.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
You owe me nothing but to breathe.
To remember how I tore my heart in
Two rendering a
Blood Eagle to stretch its wings and
Tickle our souls with its sticky feathers.
When I think of us, I see us as we were.
Other people than now.
Memories framing themselves like a
Fantastic painting the artist
Stepped back to admire, then died.
*Hang me. Hang me before i hang
Myself.*
Dramatically opposed to drama.
Uninterested infatuation.
Broke billionaire.
Mortal gods shaking divine hands
With decomposing composers,
Thanking them for the silence.
We were lovers and enemies, and
I'd still give my life and afterlife to
See you worship another as if I
Never left a fingerprint on this
Planet; resting as safely in arms that
Love you unendingly,
As we all lie sleeping; dreaming
In our own, stronger arms,
Forgetting that even our loving
Is imaginary.
Death is awakening.
Rubbing the
Eyes of our souls and yawning,
We look up and smile at that which
All of this is a bleak and fleeting
Shadow of.
Plato knew.
When I wish to die, I do too.
This love is not Love.
It's all mud and air.
You owe me nothing but to breathe.
