my resolution,
a false dichotomy: brown
eyes, or purple walls.

I'll remember you as you were.
Innocent; out against the bluest of blue.
Where the sky hangs low,
on the veil of green lands.

I'll think of you.
From time to time.
With a soft thought,
and a gentle smile.

A fond memory,
To get me through
this storm.

However,
I'd cut off my own hand,
before I ever reach for you again.

For you are the thorns
on a red, red rose.
The gleaming needle waiting
to be threaded.
The nefarious laced poison
dipped in candy.

I wouldn't dare reach for you.
Because the pain may fade,
But the scars you left,
Will always be the same.

They never did,
Get it right.
The wiring inside my head.
Some switches flip far to quickly,
Some it seems,
Not at all.
I've come to accept it though.
I can't exactly get in there,
And I've never been much,
Of an electrician.
But hey!
That wiring is me.

When the sun sets, I still see the sun.
It inverses in my mind, like a train with human legs and human feet have carried it from manifested back to idea. As if all I know or dream about is as meaningless as the words I profess to know how to write.
It's like as I hear the party at the neighbors, is it real? Does anyone else hear it? I hear my partner's breathing as she sleeps, and I wonder if I am real. Am I part of someone else's truth? Or am I not at all?

Is any of this real?

Peeling an orange.
Trying to make the spiral PERFECT.  

PERFECTION IS NOT ATTAINABLE.

or is it
?.?.?

I strive FOREVER for PERFECTION.

I desire so deeply, for perfection.

Failure is the wall I keep breaking my nose on. The blood that falls from that wound could turn the course of a river or flood the seas.

It should be able to melt the wall, so I can ascend the throne, right?

If I bleed enough metaphor will I flood the holes in my excuses and sail to forever and beyond where I only bathe in gold?

Death is the act of becoming.
Death is the act of birthing.
Death is all that is, creation;;;
And destruction.

Death is love.  
Death is hate.
Death is neutrality.
Death is chaos.

Death is order.
Death is truth.
Death is real.

Only death is real.  

Death, death, death.

Only death is real.

Death is life.
Death is gateways.
Death is magick.
Death is G-D.
The Lord is life,
Thus, The Lord is death.  

Death is endlessness.
Death is the spiral.
Death is forever.  
Spiral. Spiral.  Spiral.
Death is deathless.
Death is holy.
Death is Shiva.
Death is Allah
Death is *******.
Death is Om.
Death is Jesus.
Death is Roman Empires fallen.
Death is the earth fallen.
Death is trees fallen.

Only death is real.
Only The Lord is real.
The Lord is death.

Death. Death. Death.
Only death is real.

Life is illusion.
A testing dream for death.
Death is a gateway to Divinity.

Only death is real.

As a black snowflake falling, which is also white;
On a white backdrop of life, which is also black,

I escaped as ash of gray December.
I became as a ghost.
A single note of flute music.
A whimper on the ocean.
A tear of acid purple rain.

In ash you became.
As a moth which grows like vines of roses, black.

As a moth which flies like winds of time, tearing away your youth and beauty like sand againt stone and wood.
You became.

As a moth which is the snowflake of black or white on the land of black or white, you became. Frozen, still, silent.

Like the music I cried for.
Like the music I died for.

As you, like a moth, silently and with violent sound, became.

Withering, withering, withering down.
A spiral of emptiness and weakness in my own heart.
A sickly form of hate.
A frail figure of shadows and misery and memorie.

O! and what is the field of golden corn compared to the bruise on your throat.
Choked by the ******* of godliness, when she is called life///when she is called death.

Forced to spit out your last drop of blood, through your pharynx///through your eyes.

Sexually with the knife in hand. Like stone to butter, stabbing within the heart of the devil. Like the beast with three *****, who carries the devil in his sinful testicles...you stab stab stab at the flesh of your own chest.

No hair after the fire, no blood after the lust.

The sexuality which assaults YOUR OWN SANITY. It becomes you.

Withering and withering within the HELL of your own spiral.

O! and when are you to become the devil within the sac of the beast?

To be born and reborn again within the light of the sun.

Burning away in a pool of blood that you craved forever.

Burning back together in a pool of ***** that you craved forever.

O! and who are you when you are left naked and alone by your own hand in a pool of hate that you craved forever, I asked myself.