The world.
Is.
Smaller now.
Regardless of how insignificant a life is.
The grand scheme means little.
Is it ignorance..
Or acceptance.
That perpetuates the question.
For those wise enough to answer.
Is the same as those wise enough to not.
This prison of cycles.
Rotates and regulates.
The quality of living shifts gears to auto pilot.
And the low rumble of marching is heard.
In the distance.
As it always is.
Comes chaos.
Pain at its heels.
The weary shall never rest.
Nor should it surprise..

Fragrant rhymes.
Flutter about.
Time.
Coursing through the looking glass.
Altering the it.
That was then.
Unchanging.
Mitigating.
Lines.
Into small.
Razor ridden.
Regrets.
This trial by fire.
Purges not sin.
But innocence.
Welding each mistake together to finally.
Yeild a person.
A mass.
Succumbed to the mass.
Less.
Whole.
In which there is room for little else..

Hidden among the many.
Slightly.
Similar faux expressions.
Is there a dystopia brewing.
Reanimated by body language.
To unravel the mysteries lurking behind the meaning.
An analytical catastrophe.
Set in a form neither parties will truly.
Understand.
Tare at each ambiguous statement.
And may the lines.
Be read where they are.
For between them.
Hold the keys to enlightenment.
But this unheard of sacrifice.
Cannot hold the minds eye at bay for long.
For time simultaneously deteriorates.
And fortifies the logic set in so called stone.
Only the dust may cry.
A tear for every single solemn remnant left behind.
Misinterpreted.
And alone.

Why am I still up?
The sun has not yet aroused
The morning dew still lays upon the ground
The crisp cool air still innocent of the days trifle
And life has yet to stifle
As I look around this morn
I cannot help but feel a scorn
For the sun gets to greet the day with warmth that I can never have
But that warmth makes me very glad
Still I wonder about my luck
And ask again
Why am I up?

The ache begins where it left off.
Time to search the forest of wounds this body has amassed.
As they are looked upon.
Some meager.
Others.
Still flow from that distant beating.  
Does recounting them seem.
frivolous.
Yet the task goes on regardless of want.
A lasting tenacity.
Encumbered by every last choice made.
As this chest takes in breath.
Does regret put that jagged dagger straight to the jugular.
Crying out would make no difference.
Time has made that so.
A vow kept sacred.
For deterioration has stayed true to its words.
So must I make good on mine...
Or embrace the lasting corrosion that living so lovingly bestowed.
If only.
Time was a friend.
Then deciding wouldn't seem so..
Final.

people who don't accept you at your worst don't deserve you at your best.

There are so many different ways to describe.
Things.
Yet there are so many..
That never find them.
Express them.
An abundant ocean of withheld apologies.
Silent screams.
If emotions could ****.
The streets would run black.
Darker than any night the world has yet to see.
And those left to witness this verbal massacre.
Stand as their tombstones.
A shadow of what was.
With little to say.
And not an inch of explanation.
So this tango of tenaciousness ensues.
Flailing about.
Wanting.
Wishing.
Accepting..
How useless.
Meager.
To think that at any given moment.
The answer would come.
So the questions continue thus.
Like any other day.
The only difference.
Is that the disappointment of not knowing the question.
has left.

The smoke has yet to lift.
Giving the horizon a eerie feel.
The whistle of death has long since passed.
Even the thunder that lashed out so hungrily.
Has been subdued with the souls scoured.
Numerous holes are sporadically placed among the rubble.
Some are filled.
Like the contents of a blender set to mince.
I peer into the stagnant pool that collected in the smoldering depths.
Not even the earth seemed to want them.
The urge to dive in overtakes my senses.
And the remnant cries are getting stronger.
With every breathe does my mind crystalize.
Frozen in the moments that distort this rigid oasis of despair.
The need to return beckons.
Yet integration is nearly complete.
These arms have become strangers.
Just like the rest of this surrogate being.
The storm is coming.
But I remain.
Watching.
As the familiar figure takes its leave.
Grinning with every step.