All of these questions bubbling up like/
Incessant bubbles in a boiling ***,/
That I don’t think want to be heard. I feel the/
Way you look at me, like I’m waiting to/
Break, come apart at the seams. Avoiding/
me with dull, effortless acts to conceal/
It. What I don’t understand, is why you forced me/
To be this way and then run away from/
It - imagineer of Frankenstein’s image/

Downtrodden paths that once were occupied/
Lay silent, untraveled. Familiar/
Pathways bring familiar memories/
Long forgotten, sweeping beneath cold feet./
Long moonswept hair lays still over a white/
Face. Tree roots like fingers combing through hair/
And caress her porcelain face waiting/
To be found, face down in the cold damp earth./

An empty black canvas live quietly outside of existence,
Perfect and still.
Small ***** of light appear and fester dotting the vast expanse with it’s unorthodox paintbrush.
A startling action occurred and the universe became technicolor and intricate.
Spiraling into the attention of the canvas came a sphere, circling the sun as lover may, depending on one another.
Creatures inhibit a place like this and destroy what little “something” came of this black canvas of nothing,
and all the while the painter kept on creating new miseries.

Soft kisses melt in
The palm of my hand, warm lips
Tainted with new love

A person who is used to leading has trouble accepting new paths and assistance from others. when the world rolls on without us, we lose our way and refuse guidance from others All at once we are lost and alone and seek refuge from an unforgiving world. Somewhere in this darkness, hands grasp unwilling hands and lead us towards the light; show us that it is okay to follow instead of lead.