My footsteps should have remained static,
but I listened while you were whispering
                beyond my reflections.
       I was their but my own impression
didn't linger long enough to see the pain
                       falling like autumns leaves.

I looked beyond the views of myself and saw
a light fading before it was meant to become
                                                    a shooting star.
I now wish upon your descending memory,
wishing I had been there more before you felt
                        the need to become extinguished.

Reminiscing on my failures of what I should
                                           have delicately read.
But I let you light fade swinging like an
extinguished chandelier.
No longer did light breath,
                    but an extinguished moment
of time that wasn't meant to fade yet.

*"Were both shooting stars hanging silently,
                      never falling just motionless in grief.

On tethered dreams I hang upon,
                never really suffocating
on the mirage of my hallucinations
that I skim past.

My feet barely glancing as
      I stem for growth
   to reach this ill choice of wanting.
but  I wilt before slipping in to
         a suspended unconsciousness.

I see the colours of hope above me,
       but these illicit shimmers
keep me hanging from a goal
that could falter me.
       Tethered now within my own disappointment.

Yet I choose this path of least resistance,
    suspended between the ending of my
               continued existence.
Or to just keep looking up
        not seeing that my choices
will someday float beyond my reach.

Every snowflake like a
                   chandelier hanging
from the ceiling of the heavens.
Light glistens from there cold
                                           glimmer.
Collecting on the sorrows of winters
barren collection on bleak visuals.

But when these chandeliers fall,
        enveloping all in a winters glow.
And for a few moments, everything
                              is in symmetry.
A masterpiece of indistinguishable beauty.

Is it something?
Everything?
All there is?
In this simulation
We call life,
Anything's possible.
An infinite echo.
A forever-ticking clock.
A perfectly sharp blade.
A rope, rough and ready.
She hangs it up.
To hang a picture.
A picture for HIM.
For us.
For everyone.
Echo,
          echo,
                    echo,
       ­   echo,
gone.

Where soulless white shades hang.
                             The tempest of breath
Clings around these hung effigies..
      
Drying them of sweet nectars fluid..
                          Even though evaporated
     the essence of summer lingers.