She ruined you in the way
Water erodes rock
And time obscures memory.

She was the gentle fawn
That nestled within your contrived roots,
The soft fog
That embraced your unchanging peaks,
But went away
One season too soon.

Too soon,
She was the comet that shot past
And would only reappear in another lifetime,
The painted lady
That touched upon your concave petals,
And then took flight
One moment too soon.

She ruined you in the way
A woodpecker chips at trees
And watercolor makes inked lines run.

Too close,
You let her come too close,
Until you were tangent lines in an otherwise beautiful work of art.

Somebody had to go.

– so when she left,
She was ruined
   In the way human breath
   Makes pure water acidic,
And she ruined you
   In the way acidic water
   Wipes every detail
   Off the face of an architectural masterpiece

I am...

the kind of abandoned house
people leave in ruins.
I am a wreckage;
I am destruction

the end of the **** of a cigarette
people step on the moment they're done with.
I am the poison they inhaled;
I am discarded

the type of crack on pavements
people walk around to avoid tripping over.
I am a trap;
I am dangerous

the kind of toy broken beyond use,
parents throw away into the bin
I am trash;
I am worthless

but the house was once filled with laughter and joy
the cigarette was once lit
the pavements were once whole
the toy was once valuable

i was onced LOVED
i was WORTHY
I once LIVED

Was.
Past tense.
No longer.

Take me to the line
Whisk me to the end
A place of lived reality
Where it makes sense

Take me to the river
Drown me in a fall
A place of abstraction
Where magic happens

Take me to the icecaps
Freeze me on the peaks
A place of surreality
Where ecstasy copulate

This space of fiction
*** brewed as a drug
Lovers a bought right
Lines of ruins and glories

Draw the line to see
A bridge of realness
A tow halved illusions
Drag me to the in-betweens

I have always preferred the ancient, crippled and malformed ruins of places. The backbones of civilisation laid bare upon the ribs of the earth, I see more beauty in this destruction than angel's houses that stand tall and golden, shimmering in the light of the sun and preserved as if God's own hand had molded them. They are wrong.
See here the gloat of man! How we scream for attention and praise using the shining foundations of an unknown God to control the known masses and make them believe we are bigger than we are; bigger than the dirt that molded us and the humble springs that nutured us. We are not infallible nor unbreakable as those golden houses would tell. We are as fleeting and finite as the ages of man passed in bare rememberence.
We build our homes amongst ruins and return to them despite any prayers, temples, or carved angels, we are born from dust and we return to it, with no divide to say what man served what god or what coin filled who's purse.
The dark takes everything and does not hold favourites.

I met a boy who doesn't want to let anything nor anyone close;
For he is made of ruins and constantly fears that he will destroy everything he touches.

I find myself lingering more and more in the emptiness and because of this I awake in the chaos of a misplaced life. I am constantly forced to build an empire from the ruins of my mind, but the bricks never align the same each time.

                       I am
not doing
                          well. I’m
     not
                                 doing well
          at all.

I don't know what wood
this table is made from
as I bought it from a yard sale,
but to be brash
it seemed the people's home
had been foreclosed.

Knocking on the table's surface
imagine the beating sounds
of drums, a native tribe
secluded from the river of reality
and yokes the essence
of their seclusion to be culture.

Now imagine the opposite
and you'll understand the quality
of the table I just bought--
who has no history
and most likely
rested on IKEA's factory floor,
it's welcoming to the world.

There is no grain to this creature
as the metallic hands that crafted this beast
lacked a soul and its creations lack one too--
fittingly, it's perfection is a symptom  
to the disease that lies in it's faux-wood.

Placing the poor table frame
inside some high rise studio in Manhattan
I can't help, but imagine--
the hands that will enviably gloss over this shell
and preach to their acquaintances
of a life the table never had.

Her body was a temple
but her mind and heart are in ruins.