Like apparitions
on a winter morning,
empty husks we have become.
Lingering—
cold and breathless things;
dead things.

Games played at train stations
As we all just slide by
Our weathered eyes
Begin to crack.
We’ve dried up.
Become husks
As we drown in lassitude
“To the End!” we cried!

If problems were leaves
mine would be dried husks of
                         contemplation.
Every one I tried to solve would
just crumble between my fingers.


When I walk on the echoes of
deliberation its stalks penetrate
              deep within my wandering.
Why does nothing grow on
         falling leaves of deterioration.

A dilemma of reflection never grows
            it only crumbles beneath palms.
Clasping at tears never diluted
                but even though expelled.
Never did a single drop help the problems.

Lonesome in the moonlight
thinking only of your kisses
missing the levity, missing the pivotal moment
where I open eyes to two who stare in mine
and return to Earth as ash as we both burn up
as we turn to stars mimicking, a little bit,
the husks of human flesh we were
And I'm surrounded, and I drown in
the affectations of a denomination out of touch or too in tune
Pull me ever down
Under the riptide
To be so suffocated
Between the dead--
not deities.