This static rain
is singing me to sleep
as the darkness engulfs your voice.

This ecstatic pain
is an unsettling creep
of silence becoming the noise.

Poetry was all she talked about
and Poetry was all she was.

Like forgotten cables
on the floor,
we intertwine ourselves
and can't seem to be undone.

You tell me you want to know,
but tell me what you really mean.
Through the lines, you say, "Lie to me",
scattered dilapidation being the incorrect
way of being. I must let this darkness out,
yet instead I give you light. If only
the light I lied was enough to permeate
my dreary, opaque existence.

So maybe we can hide,
all the others meet
over on the better side.
Maybe all these chips in me
are just because we're tired.

So maybe we're out of time,
all our love, it fleets
over to the other side.
Maybe all these chips in me
are caused by our desire.

So maybe we have younger hours,
where we broke one day
yet never gave up to the cowards.
Maybe all these chips in me
were made by who we are.

Some people are born
With crystals in their eyes
And hope in their skies
Of blue and green watercolour dreams.

No such shimmering exists
In here. The glimmer
Of past wonder has long since
Been destroyed by fear of existing.

Those three words;
hurt me, burn
me, know me.
Desolate delight. I
will burden you
with identity. I
will ache for
my divine shadows
to return. Yet
the clouds parted
and I saw
truth, some strange
recognition within, brought
by my thoughts.
"I know you."