People die.
Some young.

I recall my stolen
Moment. Soul's eyes

Opening; floating, cradled
In warmth -such

Contrast to the sterile
Chill of the table against

My back-
Beeps and pings fading

Like some sun setting
Somewhere behind.

That's right...
How could I forget...?

Seeing Day.
Sleep ending.

People die.
Some young,

But a few close their eyes
And return. I love this

Beautiful, terrifying
Dream.

You may be more beast than
Man in their eyes; bearded,
Scarred, too tattooed,
History of violence,

History of summoning tears.
But you'll dig a grave for our
Loved ones with your own
Two hands, bruised knuckles

Around hickory and hard
Plastic. So we can relax and
Cry.
You've wrestled huge, angry

Enemies, and won.
Your hugs are epic.
You have taken lives. You have
Arms to hold galaxies.

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.

A fish in flight; a queen diving
Free, slender and one with the
Streaming hands that caress

While she slides through the
Ocean's nerves and lips and fingertips,
Being the truth; that

This mother of two gentle kings
Is water-based and carries tears
Enough to drown the world

For them. Has cried her pillows
Warm for them,
A mama bear to any fear that

Might wish any harm on them.
She swims in seas in Neverland,
And dreams of feeling strong

Again.
I recognize that song, my friend.
So be where you belong, my friend:

Keep the ocean in your heart,
And when the skies within are
Dark, just

Close your eyes and jump right in,
Feel the salt against your skin.
Taste the water, stroke the

Seaweed; feel its
Calmness seep
Within.

Appreciation in the
Beggar's eyes when your
Coins sing against the others
In his cup.

You look around to see
If anyone saw you,
Then walk on,
Proud of your

Charitable heart.
Oh, so proud.
Well, I thank you on
Behalf of my broke brother,

Sad, though, that your ego
Speaks so loudly no-one
Can hear what your soul is
Trying to say.

"Oh, yes. That hurt.
That hurt like a thousand slaps from a
Thousand teachers each. Like

Dragon claws dripping with bile and
Venom into male ego exposed. Ego
And pride and the nature of the bottles

Of labelled **** that you threw back,
Chickening out on cold, hard reality.
Once again.

Friends and lovers lost, some long,
Some not. All gone with the wine. You
Could have written volumes by now.

Recorded legendary albums, created
Art like few others.
Yet, every millidrop of your

Blood screams for someone, or
Something rather, to take you
Away from all that's everyday.

Be it even war." Well,
I want peace, now.
Battleworn and

Empty from facing all the same
Demons. Chainmail shredded,
Body worn on the inside from

Aqua Vitae and ale.
It hurts. It hurts like a thousand
Freshly sharpened pencils carving

Into the exposed areas of my love
For bad nostalgic habits and
Days after days with drink, laughter

And inhaling
The air of temporary excitement,
Picking at scabs and naming myself

Surgeon, letting the hearts of others
Pick up my tab when one of us
Inevetably leaves;  

Those freshly sharpened pencils
Carving mantras to keep me alive
And wake me the Hell up, like:

"The people I
Need do not
Need me like

This," and
*"I have
Pride."