Flashes of happiness
are birthed out of clashing glitches,
sickening and imagined.
Scatter ashes to bitter winds
in remembrance of anything,
but the tragic stabs skin
and we forget to love the many dreams that were fused together beautifully.

I refuse this to be another funeral speech. Its a mutiny, a coup.
I'm not dead, still dripping truth from my chest.
I love you.

Their scared of everything.
The sky, the hearsay, the mirror image of smeared grace on faces.
They sever frames til it's ageless.
All of it.
It dissolves the same.
All of it.
Walls are raised to hide behind
and calling it quits, intimately  
entwined in a time of falling into an abyss.
Faults to wind was the offer for all the gods they thought to blitz, but
now there is just the walls and the shoddy lens to see them through.

All of this has always been from beneath the beat, asleep and dreaming of every scene where
the "they" was the me and you.