They climb up each wall, curved like the sun's breast,

At sunrise.

Then crawl, listless, to the rough ledge

To commit suicide.

They plummet.

Taking my aspirations as they dive.

Two teardrops with crushed hearts,

And, now, crushed heads.

Sunset.

Though I contemplate
The last line on this spring day,
Four words aren't enough.

Before you get caught up in the rapture of romance,
Remember that the origin of every devastating heartbreak is beautiful.

The tragedy of naivety.
The calamity of familiarity.

This warning I submit to you,
Gatsby.

"And his voice carried on."
The words echo like a spirit through the air of the desert land.
They continued the search for him at every dawn.
All that's endured are legends of this special man.

The village awaits, while the trekkers search ... And search. They tarry on.

Spent, they return as the sun sets ... The town chants: "And his voice carried on."

What was once a world of blue and green is now arid & bare.
Society collapsed under the weight of false ideologies and greed.
Souls are choked in the grasp of a common stare.
They starve for truth more than any carnal need.

And his voice carried on.

They've heard his words are power.
They've been told his voice has golden wings.
They've heard his essence towers.
They've been told and told ... They've never seen ... They've only been told these things.

Civilization is naught but a sentient species stained.
Only a village remains.

The villages tarries on.

They used to scorn him.
Now they mourn him.

The trekkers search on,
In pursuit of the fountains that flow from his speech.
As the people thirst on,
Desperate for the day he comes within reach.

He is alive.

And he is free.

He thrives.

I know it ...

Because I am he.

The last poet.


And his voice carries on.

You awake from sleep hoping it was all just a bad dream.
As you open your eyes,
Reality is staring you in the face
Like a growling tiger
And strikes your heart,
As it implodes within itself.

I get lonely
My heart starves for love till it gets bony
Isolation is my bestest friend
Solitude is my next of kin
I'm like a tiny cloud that floats through a blue sky
And gets ignored by the news guy
I am a broken leaf that floats down a cold river
My heart has become so frigid my bones shiver
My teeth chatter, my voice quivers
No grass grows,
the wind blows,
this is my soul's winter

Treat her like a queen,
Be her best friend,

See her like a dream,
& cherish her breath's wind.

Treat him like a king,
Be his best friend,

See him like a dream,
& cherish his breath's wind.