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

suspended with gloom
as I watch everything I should have been
fade away into the depths of a hallway
where the light may never reach
diseased or deceased?

don't breathe to me
in the patterns that you tend to.
hold them in
and let them grow stale

blue in the cheeks
the worry in your eyes ensue
no more poison
as you breathe to me in braille

I tend to laugh when I get mad
and numb when I'm sad
so hand me your fourth finger on a silver platter
and I'll dress it with my mood ring

the open field and it's moving wind
has no mind, but it's all the same
the distance from heart to brain
and the distance from home to strange

the song never ends
the strings vibrate
muffled and underwater
slowly, slowly, slowly

my kind
always die
and live hard
live really intensely and hard and sturdy
always ending in melted wax
with smoke rising
waving hand gestures
with haze and goodbyes

the October wind grazes
along fields of my skin
but August still lingers with suffocation,
humidity continually seeping

as rustling leaves made a girl
knowing colors would change
permeating a hint of cinder
from the stems, the bark, the branches

hooves cautiously drifting
drawn to low static
the flow of chemistry
over pebbles and geology

my reality is laid to rest
but awoken by peaceful dreams
naturally creating moments
art by which exists in visceral beams

we learn that the wind carries infancy
the substrate holds discovery
the water reveals change, if not time
and the brain develops meaning
-belonging only to seen ambience
-to which includes ourselves

dark
light

I wake up to dirt
toys
bunkbeds

dark
light

I wake up to a classroom
girls
friendships

dark
light

I wake up to a beard
a 9 to 5
bills

dark
light

I wake up to a wife
kids
wisdom

dark
light

I wake up to wrinkles
loss
deterioration

light
dark

elastic skin
should you break
you would unleash
rust