my eyes are no longer spouts.
they are steel made of lost consciousness.
and as for the well
it has been taken by dunes of soot
and this,
this milky shadow.
disgust flowing slowly through my flesh as time drags me by my eye lids.
screams from above,
yelling from their crystal lungs
"save yourself"
loudness without understanding as they quickly dissipate
and I am taken
turned to shade
black lightning slowly strikes, like the way liquid finds it's path down glass.
all the exit signs have burnt out and caught fire.
this flood of abysmal embers that glow white, but also black.
and the stygian bolts that cast shadows within and all around.
I am very much dead, but with breath
and with each, I seep.

poem or plea?

what do we have, but this life.
our gods that stay hidden within our minds.
be it unseen,
or undesired.
distinguished as love
and, inevitably, being misplaced.
our memory passes as wind.
and the moments, bursting from our eyes.
but I ask you
what do we have?
but to experience the misunderstood
and grieve from incomprehension.
we have the very thing we call life
and, from time to time, we're told this
by the joy, the pain, and the mystery
that runs down our faces.

great plains in the sky
made of lakes yet fallen

brevity

white static floating from smokey stars above
of which we can see, but cannot touch

brevity

burnt mountains without melting expressions
chilled whispers laying seconds to their coffins with it's infinite lullaby

brevity

bold, sunken opticals played by illusion
connected to an ***** of wires and circuits
connected to

brevity