Amidst the temperature dropping

The words and actions blended together

Then symphonies became orchestral

And I knew then, they were instrumental

Caressing my soulless vacant husk

Kneading feelings back into me.

Perhaps at the end of my ink, the end of graphite.

This is the way I bleed best, into paper.

They said, write well.

They said, write less.


I wrote, breaking as every word I poured had a piece of me.

I wrote, letting my soul enunciate every word, proofreading their symphonies.

My flesh is crawling
Coated with the sensations
That were left from yesterday

My heart is cracking
Bound together by hope
That I chose to hold close/dear

My soul is fading
Touched by the end of all things
Where even death may die.

There are moments

Which you speak


But there are moments

Where you halt your breath


And speak of something else

For better or for worse.