Disjointed reflections of vertebrae
that were fluid in the synapsis of
                       my subconsciousness.
they were inadvertently disjointed
              from my walking thought.

Then I fell beneath the tower that
I had build within,
               collateral damage of life.
Broken windows of reflection that
I tried to close, but lacerated my
cognitive actualization of self.

That which severed my validity of self
             was pendulous, but with a
string we can weave something new.
Not as it was before, more worn and not
so luminous, but what was lost is gained
for that voice a lingering a shadow of before.

My view of the world
           through rose tinted glasses.

I hope that we can pick up roses
      hand them to each other
rather than point weapons upon
                       brothers & sisters.
But a rose is a sour beauty
for even thorns can bleed
              deeper than a dull sword.

We must speak to each other find
             solace in others humanity.
For words can heal rifts that started
                 long before we were born.
But syllables latching on to the misgivings
                      of insecurities can wound.
Like papercuts on the mind,
        speaking to the shallow cradles swinging
        in a hateful wind of whispers flawed.

I wear glasses that I take of every now
          and then, I have a idealistically flawed
view seeing the potential of us.
But knowing we can fall harder
                                      than when can get up.

I heard the silhouette of your heart
       echoing in the eyes of our love.
You were a seed that grew entwining
                  around our everyday lives.

Like a petal you were blossoming,
              but then the wilted slowly.
Never did we think beauty could fade,
        every heartbeat a precious reflection.

Where once we had joy, then sadness
       enveloped our hearts, as still as yours.
When you were born, no tears of joy as
       petals had fallen, and stillness entered our lives.

"Every beat is precious,
                      hold everyone one like its a delicate petal"

We escape the confines of the flesh
         through the skin of the dead
for we read unseen words woven
                   like a tapestry on them.

But you can only read what you
have vanquished, and momentarily
it will tell you the future of
                              8,409,600 breathes.

But once the last one expels you must
read upon another for the future has
                                          repercussions.

Only the dead can tell you the words
of the future as there's was taken for
                                my continuation.
I have read many words but soon
                       I must read them again.

My future out ways yours, for I must
breath and read the words of a future
                                      you'll never see.

Void less echoes shimmer across
the hull, as her thoughts delve in
to the scintillescent embers of her
past. She couldn't have foreseen
that every pebble gazed downward
upon, wasn't worth the ripple of an
                             anchor without her.


Her hands held on to the metal as
if it were of meaning, caressing its
indentations. She knew every bolt
and rivet that kept her within the
confines of this place. She used to
gaze outward in this very
                                             same spot.


Memories are like stars, fading after
they have burnt brightly for so long.
This is why she came to this window.
Casting a gaze thinking of the beauty
before her, possibilities to her endless
imaginings, but then she faded
                                                   before me.

But space is cold, and now she ventures
beyond my grasp, a grain in an ocean
eternity. I look outward thinking of her
everyday. Knowing that one day I’ll be a
grain finding her
                             in the sands of time

Nature calved up, decapitated limbs
left in unmarked eulogies, only silence
speaks. The carcasses of the fallen now
lumber atop of each other. A mass grave
of something once tall now fallen & muted.

Within the insects of humanity now infest
this cadaver, putting what once was brethren
upon the flame. A funeral pyre of rings now
turning to ash, warming the lumbering morbidity
that has an aroma of pine cones screaming in the night.

They live within our gravestones of silence.
Nailing there memories within our husks.
Yet they abandon us like we were momentary
needs, for we are lifetimes in their finite moments.
                     And we decay from where we came from.