The uneatable is a mirage
        to those thirsty for an oases
of dream like delusions.

For nothing is waiting,
       Its only now that we
                 see idyllic reflections.

There aren't steps but a mirage
               of what our lives were.

Every step is our creation
                       to others dreams.
That we help with, our every
           reflection is there's to strive for...
She was the only plaster that
I needed to cover wounds, because
no one saw the cuts deepening beneath.
scratching at my tears, crying underneath.

But I never knew that she was the one
silently unstitching my wounds. She'd begun  
long before I was cut, but her words kept
me from realizing tears weren't for me id wept.

She never needed a reason to cut me deep inside.
I was the doll, stuffing pulled from within denied
the respect of my pride. but still I thought her my
plaster healing this cut, while reality cut deeper, why?

Why would she want to hurt what was our love,
why could one cut at that that showing her truelove.
A plaster only hides pain, covering up  intentions
of a misguided trust. I became my own intervention.

Life since our love had blossomed had been rough,
our petals were razor wire memories of those tough
times we had seen before. But I thought our time
had coated those petals, washing away past grime.

She never needed a reason to cut me deep inside.
I was the doll, stuffing pulled from within denied
the respect of my pride. but still I thought her my
plaster healing this cut, while reality cut deeper, why?

I now know that some cuts weren't mine, sharing
her past with me. But instead of healing,cutting, wearing
down what was within me. I needed to feel whole be
myself within no cuts seen. I loved her, but I was unfree.
Thy crows loiter on mornings
fever, blossom brightening to
thee. But when  petals awaken,
onyx lullabies tear each asunder.

Woeful of the beauty of years,
            thy fallen moments collect
like tattered curtains of life.
   Crows sing sirens of despair,
joyful of the passing beauty..

And still they look upon thee,
        no longer petals of years stand.
they wait till your stem of life wilts.
With but a moment of silence when all
has fallen, they bow, wings dispersing life.
Death has released her
           from the chains of
                          purgatory.
For it knew that without
balance to weigh the scales,
that they would be relased
      from this eternal silence.

        At least in hell they
could have felt, but here
                           nothingness
was the reminder of their
                         indiscretions.

Death lingered on her outline,
                 neither could harm the
other, where his touch grasped
petals fell and within his cloak
did for a moment a deep silence
              sang for a finite eternity.

A debt was repaid, but there were
           many that both owed each other.
She kissed him on the cheek and flesh
was woven momentarily and a smile
                                        ventured forth
before lips turned to ash petals and
tombstone gazes looked onward.
We are martyrs of deaths breath,  
       concussive retribution for living
in the light of decay.
Matter is a virus of consumption,
           exhausting the filaments
of extended fulfilment that will never
                                             be quenched.

But death is the saviour of existence,
      collecting on the overture of a
living rhythm, what sang to loudly
         now nullified beyond continuality.


The martyr did linger in disparity
       for life was a creation, but existence
is but greed. So let all ponder the
          expenditure of self and repercussions
of what existence brings to all.
             Death isn't an enemy,
its the saviour of existence.
Coalescing the need for continuity.
Missing a moment
              is like a lifetime
                     of shadows,
just out of reach of the light.

But I will never let you
           be a shadow,
           as you brighten
every moment of my existence.
If problems were leaves
mine would be dried husks of
                         contemplation.
Every one I tried to solve would
just crumble between my fingers.


When I walk on the echoes of
deliberation its stalks penetrate
              deep within my wandering.
Why does nothing grow on
         falling leaves of deterioration.

A dilemma of reflection never grows
            it only crumbles beneath palms.
Clasping at tears never diluted
                but even though expelled.
Never did a single drop help the problems.
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