By the sea, I have been staring, at your bright colours change. Erythematous, murderous intentions of a disease disseminating on your surface.
The slow, penetrating anguish tearing the guts, a one-sided, disdained, newborn sadness, I am welcoming in my arms.
On the operating theatre of life white and now dead moths, stillborn butterflies inside the flesh removed, drowned themselves in a pool of blood. They, an absurd joy that never stood a chance inside this cyanide prison.
Portals of loaned, disillusioned happiness closed. The liquid that raced turbulently through my vessels, drained on a half-filled with tears palette.
With menacing, impasto knife-like strokes on the body Morpheus painted the shadow-covered moon with memories that refuse to be forgotten from purulent, open wounds. 'Those worlds you will (never) see. The people you will (never) meet' he said.
Soul chemicals eroding the behemoth sky, as the paint dries out. Ashes of my Dreams (Not) Achieved, astral remains; everything I silently kept inside.