"My head's a whirlwind" you said.
And I was at the centre.
Blown apart by gale forces, we were,
Without escape, rendered

Crippled. We had to be
Euthanised, so you say.
Whatever happened to
A brand new page

To the chronicles of us?
There was no ink
That blotched this page.
Who was to think

A whole  pen cartridge would snap
And spill tar black paint
On this clean white page?
And then you hesitate

To wipe away the river
On the paper, and streaming
Down, from your eyes,
Tinged like the ink, screaming

At me, no words being spoken.
Your salty cheeks
Were never neat. But the eye
Of the storm, is a quiet place to be.

It wasn't the decision that hurt.
It was the reaction of inaction.
And the now set in feeling
That I was never more than a distraction.

Those bells of six tickled my ears, gently at first as the morning drifts.
Didn't turn them, off so they're throwing a tantrum.
Tantrum ongoing, my ears abused.
The noise is murdered, with a finger, euthanised, by the push of a button.
And now again, I rise.
(C) LIVVI

“Whereof one cannot speak…

She searches oceans of soft summer;
time’s broken shards (smothering) fall.

The kindle of creation lingers heavy
in a room of euthanised potential;
a dichotomy of lies and being steady
in the heart of loss and love essential

The spirit’s eyes run down hills of green
to valleys deep of squalid pride
to spectate ****** crying eyes seen
regorging lifetime’s soulless glitter magnified.

And, now: grace and smoke pitilessly drown
the sullen, unrestrained flight of winter birds.

She moves like diamond gusts of wind
cracking cordial waves. Therein, wistfully:
a chaos reflecting mirror that is pinned
to a crystalline mask etched ‘Corpus Christi’.

The models of mankind will then find solace
upon crumbling, depraved ruins of punishment;
locking natures and propensities in flawless
shrouds. She is screaming noise and banishment.

The sixth day’s seventh sun rises
And she drops like flies buzzing
in bottled and beguiled life.
It hits granite.

Sweet shards spread through time.
A putrid stench laminates innocence
as Fall’s bleeding leaves flood
the ensnared luminosity and
velvet, supple breeze of Summer’s
soft, scintillating breath.

…thereof one must be silent.”
- Ludwig Wittgenstein