capture this fleeting joy
and bind them in memories.
not knowing what despair awaits
this morose forthcoming dependency.
condition my cold shell.

twas freedom that ached
for another day of rest.
lolling to the minutes of apathy,
sanctioned sadness ensues.

now. here. the voices play tricks.

ferrying me beyond sanctity
without appetite or stomach.
phantasm; blinding apprehension
with wisps of blackness.

hardened by sorrow
the tinker’s bells are mimed in spite
upon me, ceasing feeling.
Below, the sands drain wildly
into oceans roaring. still,
the screams of drowning souls
can be heard, similar to my own
cries, swallowing suffering
with hopes to be rid of it,
no one cares.

resigning to defeat
the weight of memories bearing heavy,
in these final few moments of quiet,
sink; down to the bottom patiently

Is it the way she tucks her long wavy hair under her ear, or the way she pushes her square rimmed spectacles after flicking through another page of that ostensibly interesting book she keeps reading, that keeps her in his mind, that makes him attracted to her, as if she were a magnet – able to attract anything. Is it the way she walks, hands on the side, aimlessly walking through the cracked pavements, paying absolutely no attention to anything that walks by. Is it the way she talks, hands always creating gestures as if her peculiar voice and the way she talks wasn't enough. Is it the way she laughs, mouth wide open, with a laughter that could bring anyone’s attention, in the most sincere way. Is it the way her eyes travel down to a person’s soul, as if to seek ones problems, as if ready to be a shoulder to cry on - as if she already knew the person just by staring immensely into their eyes. Or is it just the way she is, that makes him so in love.