Today I realised my purpose of being -
I'm aging and waiting for the end of my living.
As each second passes another is lost,
for losing our seconds is our lives given cost.
You'll never feel, never see, never know this again;
this being now - and now - also then:
This is something we know, but ignored for it hurts.
But we can not forget - in memory it lurks.

Wait, no.
If the seconds are cost then what are we buying?
Is there no return that's not hurting or crying?
Have I forgotten the love, the joy in-between?
For each second pain is there not second dream?
I beg for a new eye, a new world to re-live in,
a new place with new laws and new people to believe in.
In this new world I'd be happy and free,
I'd be loved and love, I'd be lucky... not me.

No, I wouldn't be me, not in this world, anyway.
I'd be banished and gone, no new people, no betray.
I've ruined a world, but only the one,
or I've ruined my world, destroyed all the fun.
There's no more sins for me to adore,
they've all been spent leaving brilliant sore.
See I'm aging and waiting, and hurting and crying,
with the seconds I'm spending it must be this that I'm buying.
A blessèd reality, a trap painted gold,
manufactured promises with chances we've sold.
Sold for the seconds that I mentioned before,
the seconds we're spending on that brilliant sore.

*(Oh I really shouldn't think, I think way too much,
I see what this is, the world and the such.
Some people label it, call it depression,
I call it truth, just a big painful lesson.)

In the good book, theres a heaven and a hell.
Theres also limbo.
Purgatory.
Oblivion.
Siberia, for the more literal minded.

Siberia...
Siberia?

Wouldn't the Earths gifts pale in comparison to whatever golden higher realm there may be?
Wouldn't the Earths miseries shrivel into mere nuisances compared to tortured dwelling?

Wouldn't the Earth therefore be...
Middle ground?
Siberia?
Oblivion?
Purgatory?
...
Limbo?

Every time I try to write about you,
I can't.
I want to say something,
Anything,
About you.
And I want it to be both beautiful
And sad.
I want it to ****** your image
Onto the paper,
I want to reflect your very demeanor,
Through my words.
I want to create a prose
So touching,
And harsh,
That all my other works
Wither up
And become stale.
I want to taste you,
Feel you,
Smell you,
Hear you,
See you,
In my writing.
And then,
After it's complete.
After I have exhausted all my capabilities,
After you are vulnerable,
And raw.
After my name is scrawled at the bottom left hand corner,
And yours, at the top, centered.
I want to take it in my hands,
Tear it into a million tiny pieces,
And throw it into the fire.
Watching it burn,
Slowly,
Yet only for a moment.
I want to make this feeling I have tangible,
Only so I can destroy it.
But it's still thriving, right out of my reach.
And every time I try to write about you,
I can't.

When I am done here,
I will be given to whom I owe everything:
Earth.

My body will become one with the soil,
and so will the invisible scars you've left me with;
and botany will bloom,
and a garden will flourish from my body,
thus making you and I:

forever.

Long after I am gone,
people will walk by at this time of night,
and if they are of the observant type,
they will see the glowing pedals in the moonlight,
and they will pause and whisper,
"Wow.
So lovely.
This has been grown will love."

And, silently, they will wonder,
"Who keeps this up?
Who trims and preens and cares for it?"

And the wind will rustle the leaves on nearby trees,
and a Black Eyed Susan will blossom before their eyes,
and they will utter a small disbelieving,
"Oh."

And that small two letter one syllable will dance
off of their tongue and into the night air,
and Luna will smile,
and that person will keep walking,
and the waves will roll on,
and the Sun will rise again.

As the setting sun denies its light,
And the darkened sky cloaks the night,
As the full moon castes its gentle beams,
I'll be alone again, with my dreams,
And if my dreams shall come true,
I'll be alone again, holding you.

10-08-10.