He—
Her ginger.
Limp handshake.
Cacophonous  laugh.
Features, disproportionate.
In most ways- narrow minded.
Exceedingly self-assured.
Without money he is
No better than I.
Loving she:
Always.
-Me


Yet
here I stand.
Clinging to the bottle.
Watching the years pass by.
Alone atop this cold, cobble, stoop;
Coat covered in cigarette ash.
I don’t think of  you—
or  at  least  I
try  not
to.


Not
quite dead…
However, not entirely
alive either. And I made a sincere
effort to climb out of the plot you left me in;
but darling that hole you dug me was  ******* deep!
And the only tool you’d left me was that ****
bottle; which for a short while helped.
Until eventually, like you,
it consumed
me.
    
  
Now
I  awaken,
only to find that I’m
no longer capable of feeling;
and what a great disappointment this
is to me. It would seem as though my receptors,
synapses, neurotransmitters, etc- have flickered and fried.
Dopamine, will no longer travel within these
useless,  dried-up,  old veins of mine.
Evidently my demise, resultant
of a life lived alone
in a faster
lane.

I want to go away.
Lay me in the Earth
And let my body decay.

My mother isn't a cryer,
She would rather fold my body up
To lose it to fire.

Would they sprinkle my ashes somewhere-
Or place me in a jar,
Leaving me on a shelf without a care?

I would rather be put in a box-
Placed underground
To be covered in a mold frost.

He was lonely, as was his heart, carver
Of wood, he searched upon forest &
Glade till before his eyes laid sight of a masterpiece,
Home he hurried
Carving,  
Smoothing,
Varnishing
Not noticing or ignoring the black knot
But unbeknown, this was a deeper
Problem. Rotten, decayed black festered
Within not showing on the outside,
But things are missed in joy,
Things that will haunt, but he was finished
His boy of wood stood before
His so tearful eyes, your only wood
Only inanimate, sitting before my weeping eyes.
Heard where his whispers
Upon a night were they asked back,
"You are of sound heart"
"You are of compassion"
"You will have a son of wood with life in his heart"
As he looked upward,
A sight befell his reddened eyes
"FATHER"
Words fell forth unto his ears,
"Did you just speak??
"Father"
He hugged upon wood given life,
"Son"
"Son"
"A boy of my own given life"
"I love you son"
"I love you father"
His nose grew,
leaves sprouted forth,
"Aaghhhhh"
As Pinocchio snapped what grew forth,
And throw it upon the floor,
In pain he reeled,
"Son be calm"
For lies will be greeted by growth
Shall a lie be told, only good boys
And girls realise that honesty will be rewarded.
With that he cuddled his father, you know
Not love but I will show you unconditionally
Till you understand honesty also love,
Upon those words both bedded
For the night was late and father was old,
But he never slept, upon the floor
Part of him that broke off,
Now tainted black,
As it had succumb to its chosen fate,
As he fashioned upon tools
A living weapon,
"Blackest as night"
He felt connected
They were apart but one.
Into the bedroom he crept,
"Father"
"Father"
"Awaken"
Startled old eyes widen, I have a gift,
As he plunges it forth,
Son whhhhy I loveeee youuu
"I am but wooden given life"
"Blackness rots inside"
"It must feed"
For without it I will cease,
When I was just cold
It was my end no difference to any one.
And now given life
That is all that matters this night,
And with that he ****** into his
"Fathers heart"
He felt relief inside no more ties
But he cried splintered tears upon his
Blood they mixed upon the floor
He had extinguished his first life.
He needed to stem the flow as
He felt the veins rooting further
Life was his not easily given up,
The town fell silent that night,
As he fed well, he charred his
Finger tips black upon once so tanned,
So to feed with both knife and hand.
He would travel the world, death in his wake
All thought
"How unique"
"How harmless"
"How sweet"
But when the hunger craved,
Life was bled,  life was ceased
All for the rot to not **** this wooden boy
"Rotten core in a boys shell"
Prey his nose does not grow just a little
Because your time in life will be up.

A seed is planted,
Leaves grow,
Flowers bloom,
Fruits ripen,
The bark toughens,
The stem branches out...

Seasons change,
Leaves wither,
Flowers wilt,
The fallen fruits rot,
The bark wrinkles,
The branches grow higher...

The eternal onset of time,
As the sand escapes the funnel of the hourglass.
Invert and repeat for every empty bulb.
A life, progressing from *birth,
Ending at decay.

Time, she plays her tune-
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-...
Like a metronome set to 60 BPM;
Never stopping, ever stomping on,
Oscillating to the mechanical rhythm of Time's pendulum,
Journeying to a finite end on a path set up to infinity.

*Time, she is proof, that we are alive--
Proof that decay hunts down the living...