When did you tell me that the sunrise was unwelcome, that the hallways gave you such anxiety and that I should just as well stay in?

I told you once that you looked young, yet sixty years had passed since your death, and you, Sylvia, were beautiful...

Said the vivid tulips ate your oxygen.

Poets have great sympathy for you in the way we gasp in sorrow and strive for beauty.

I know exactly why I love you.

From the nature of what we ignorantly hail as comparative commerce,
To the stacks of dollars you keep in upscale apartment buildings,
Will you get past your own facade of money and public persona
In looking inward, at calloused soul,
Seeking judgment of what bears true value...

When Shkreli is dead,
There will still set puppet senators,
Spewing the filth which is evil and sponsored—
Regurgitating paid claims from which he too cut his teeth.

When along the life cycle does one lose their soul,
And if that's where you draw the conclusion that you're a man,
I'll conscientiously object from your vision of mankind.

The sun sets of empires, and you do not have one.
I don't have your wealth,
But both of us are sure to die,
Both slaves to fate,
Nothing left to buy out.

On the genesis of your ashes, your sins will not die with you.

In memoriam, only a kid who liked to play devil,
Just not as good at it as he thought.

Middle Eastern snake oil turns to Middle Eastern alcohol, and the venom you pour in will flare up your crystal eyes.

Don't lie about your cancer.
Don't tell me you're okay,
Because I know **** well you're not,
And now... I'm sure of it.

I knew you to be serious.
The shadows whispered "Tempest".
I trigger these warnings, and I have to confess that I should have confessed my love in the light glow of that restaurant.

I would scream my love to God,
But now I scream out in the air.

Still, it seems I'll write to thee,
But so blind now, Calliope,
But you knew it was you,
As you led me back into that bag of ***** tricks.

*****, *****,
Mischievous to put it lightly.
Calliope, I know at least a few secrets
That I'd bet you're still hiding,
I get no closure from screaming so loud,
Awaking nature yet no one to hear me.

I want you to scream back.

I am deserving of my Holy Litany now, am I not?
Just look how arrogant I can become
With a few stripes via ballpoint pen.

Sprung from forced pleasure
And the repression of my stress,
Half conjured and half spawned did the perfect angel I cannot move past throw me into ecstasy when I gained knowledge of her detail,
How real she truly is.

Weak do I fall,
Curves adorn your lips...
You had no fault,
You were right in catching on to my myriad ulterior motives,
I was only wrong to doubt your abilities.

Where does beauty end,
And where does it begin that I'm filling you in, and you don't have to try?

It's blurred as it's been for months and it's time I realize
That you were only ever as real as you were tonight.

Sessile and connected,
I'm sat here to ponder—
To draw the parallels
Of my own roots of understanding
And touch, once more, the slumber
Which heartbreak does not send.

We should only gauge our maturity
By the scope of the circumstances.

All things glowing,
Yet all by ourselves.

Landscape void,
Yet setting all but bleak.

You squeeze the hand of love
Sometimes in thinking
You can teach a tighter grip—
Deciding that carpal tunnel syndrome
Is sure to fade...
That writer's claw grips just as tight.

It does not.

The sonnets, I could not recite,
But sighed at the single fact
That it signaled my memory fading,
And so too might all the flowers.

II.

The buds that haven't grown
And won't.

The dark I've both loved inside and cursed,
The central city which accepted the trade for my soul.

All drifting now.
I hope you cannot relate.

You'll recognize it all in waves of belonging.
I'd bet they'll pass us by.

III.

Where has the plot gone?

Slung the ink from well to wall,
Because this Earth is completely canvas,
And all the Earth will feel it with great objectivity.

From cries of heartache
To cries of triumph,
And extremism in both,
And with joy lying off the spectrum,
All to behold.

Nothing moving forward
As we choose to read in lefts and rights
And restrict the privilege
Moving only backward.

Time travel is simple,
Don't you do it with thought?

Restoration to my smile,
Reduced me to dust.

IV.

Not my call and not in fact,
With strong mind to senses
The world was very teal.

Looked, felt,
The aura,
All distinctively teal,
Just as gentle and forgiving.

No mind to the fact that you've done wrong
And been terribly wrong
Toward the center of judgment.

I'd posit the scales
Are already in balance,
And I'd advantage you greatly
On the weight of your hope.

All in harmony,
Yet the water receded.

I must confess, I'm awful at predictions...
But you broke my calendar stone,
Tolled the bell with no rhythm
And never did you discourage it...

Of course I'm guilty,
I've found it in my nature
And I've been worshipping in your temple...

Excommunication carries the feeling of death.

Still so framed as promising
Even as the circumstances have changed.

Universe back in spirals,
Your eyes back in crystal lattice.

There is a particular way that the rain falls, gravity in mind when it does — severe,

When I'm reading rounds in between your lines.

You sit on the throne of the new regime.
Broke the idea the kind to be cruel is true when etched in stone.

De Stijl Darling.
Dutch Babe.

You stage this art-fiend Heaven,
Hypercatalyst blood into reality.

Handful of sudafed,
Your effect is the same,
When we shot through your canopy,
Sun on your hair —
Natural illuminated manuscript.

I hope you've latched on to me.

Closing in on what looks like new
    beginnings.

I'll listen, momentarily, but do the same for
    me, because I'm starting to develop an
    independent sense of worth.

Isn't it a strange occurrence, with this warm
    air, that you told me that the weather
    would never change?

It will change by definition.

We each sell ulterior motives, the prices
    vary, the markup may look sinister, but all
    is considered to pass things along.

Profit isn't your only agenda, or anyone's at  
    all, with the world trying to get ahead, and
    I too... manipulative.

I'd rather not be thinking about your
    shattered mirrors, promises, and
    friendship on the first hours of my  
    adulthood.

The Flowered Bearer told me that livers hold
     importance — I'm inclined to agree.
With that in mind, restrain yourself from
     pouring your toxic filth into me.

Not tonight, at very least.