The road behind bares us a backdrop, too many nights find us fractured in our thoughts and the dreamers we once were are far from the two people who stand today.

We're broken, mere splinters of our shipwreck past, driftwood on a shore that drowns every time the ocean breathes.
The path is littered with slaughtered dreams that didn't bleed.

As time and tide wait for no man shall we find it a tragic scene?
simply erased with the sunsets demise?
No one gets away without a scar and mine speak a road map to chaos
and a found hello to you.

Mine own scars are fingertips
gouged into the sand and faded
but salted by tears of the ocean, inerasable by the tide.
A soul washed up upon the shore, a road map etched delicately into fine bones.
You can trace where I'd been before. All roads lead to your hello.

In broken lines and have uttered phrases and one too many empty night.
Backdrop of chaos does paint in the darkest colors you could ever imagine .

How does it gets so flawed by our own creations and vices my dear?
Does it still ring ever so true?

The bell rings true whispering distant voices
Empty nights are just bottles lined up as dead soldiers
We contemplated our own truths and fell victim to our own vices
The backdrop is black, no colour beneath skin.
Honestly? Where does our downfall begin?

Two ships underneath the nightscape past the spark once understood the flame and nothing more .
In empty alleys, like cats to prowl, we find our moments, and then bury our thoughts to lay for no others to see.

half written papers and half heard conversation the keys of the piano haunt the silence as myself shadows that still remain.

Nothing is but a thought and those are like dead flowers laid to waste a reflection of far better times

The night crawls to meet the day as it has so many times before.

The thought of the minds bottle lay empty upon the table.
A fond farewell is but a sugar coated goodbye.
And I seldom have minced my words to mask their sting.

The page forever bleeds.

Pages that lay scattered on a ***** floor
Bleeding ink into cracks
that will forever more
hide the spirit of our souls.

Your like fire
Everytime I think of you it sends a spark through me
But not enough to restore my pulse
And give me body heat

Sometimes
I feel that Life is a gift that I don't deserve.
While there is abundant beauty and infinite wonder,
there is so much pain, suffering and despair.
While I wish the pain would subside,
I know such a desire is fruitless
as existence requires suffering, or it at least certainly seems that way.
Every action and non-action propagate ripples which may never calm.

Life is a paradox:
Why? Why not? How? How could it not?
Illusory, yet real. Constant, yet with cessation.
Joy, pain, excitement, dread, disappointment, elation, fear, birth, death, now, never

So much that seems wrong to one person
all done just because our circumstance binds us
to things we'd rather do without.

So frightening is the notion of death, yet so painful is the concept of life.
Sometimes death seems more comfortable and desirable than life.

Lost in thought, found in confusion;
I think my life would be a gift better utilized by someone else.
I feel like a failure. A plague. A source of disdain and pain. Confusion.
Mostly to myself, but I've seen the effects of it on others, as well.
Sometimes I hate life too much to live
but some flame yet burns within me
demanding that I feed it oxygen and inspiration
that causes me to yearn for yet another breath.

Besides, what if I were to die tomorrow?
I might as well live now, today,
while I still have the chance.

Above, this morning, on another plain
Over bogland and tundra rising snows drift
Darting birds white, unlike you, they strain
Fleeing on wing to save some earthen kin.
Blood runs as they race, your shadows cast,
Their hearts beating to some distant dawn.
Under the pale sun, white burns on their backs,
Daylight sings, their ears are horned, little faun
White as snow, the prince of the sky is blessed
On high by drops of rain, and dusted freeze,
Then blood and breast sacrament and eucharist,
Their tale ends in glory, risen as a breeze.