Age, a concept, we're doomed to portray,
to judge our virtues, which year is best,
We'll hang it and proclaim each doorway,
and **** it to hell, when the soul has to rest.

A distant shrill of
Grinding gears
Sends chills throughout
The twentieth century's
Siren song.

The suited men
With crooked smirks
File in line to be
The first to eat
From concrete ****.

They tear
And they tear
And they tear
Clawing at nature's green
Humming as droning bees
Waking birds from their falling trees
They will be the first to eat.

Stripped lies mother earth
In a ****** heap
The end will be digitized

I've begun to blink
My vision falling into place
I've begun to think
These vultures defiled ancient peace

How can I?
How can they?
How can we?

My newly
Formed
Vision
Walks in
The sight
The plane of life
Betrayed by
It's own creation.

Humans are the plague.

Evolution.
Adaptation.

Concepts which don't seem to apply to me.

Looking up, I can see the old moon
In the arms of the new one.

Here I stand, at the edge of my demise
Overlooking the city on this building,
To gaze at how the bustle of this metropolis
Begs for release.
I will be the first.
I stand on the edge of my demise,
Its crowds of people faltering between
Fate and struggle,
This city of revolution
Where blood has been spilled on its streets.
I overlook the hustling crowds and see,
Down below,
               The swinging lifestyles,
               Thieves and soothsayers on every corner,
               Talebearers and backstabbers along the sidewalks.
Standing at the edge of my demise,
I long for wings to fly away
Like a dove, harmless and at rest I would be.

Atop this elevated place,
The light of early morning shines along
These towers of terror.

As I lift my foot to step off the edge,
I notice a puddle next to me.
Staring into this small basin of identity,
It reveals what I have missed–––
I remember what I have missed in me.
My face is unlike the rest of those
Who populate this hustling city.

To the moon, my sweet eclipse of gale.
Tread soundly, have reason spilled upon you.
As sweet white skin drilled with creators upon your face seem new though games of time play tricks upon you.
Have no tricks cloud your new expression while your face is shown.
Shedding reflected light upon the pieces of my past, connected with a spear impaled through the heart of time... still lost along the way.
Have I known the way to reach you, spilling blood on my coffins door. Liquid stained through generations, a starlight yet to show true mornings canvases, past you, reflecting your light of whitest, through red, blue or harvest, thee suspends me above sadness.
Past the frail illusions of day.

"forever isn't real," I tell the boy
who thought we would last forever

Layman's troubles, you fickle bode,
Who picks apart my breaths incentives,
And hastens my growing old.
Oh why can not you find
But one excuse to leave me,
For if the move was partnered
I'd grin and jump across the sea,
To find a locked up place to hide
Til' you decide to change your mind,
And sure you will,
You have before,
Then came with troubles new;
Searched, and found me hidden beneath the floor.

I hope some day you'll understand
My eyes of darkened shades,
And why they churn a fire burning,
Wishing you would end these days.
Only then will I choose to leap
Across the sea once more.
For a chance to walk on ground not burdened
By my troubles
That burn all open doors.