there is a painting above my head, below the ceiling. it is very dear to me.

what if all we were meant to be has gone to waste

would have that been a betrayal or sorts

the path of resignation swarming my brain

oh woes the garden has gone to waste

anger has bled the forest dry and the rye

the grain, seed and food of the very despair

feeding my death of peace of mind, deeply dissatisfied

not good enough and I am to blame

the nails do not cut it, anymore

they do not pierce the 

itch sustained, the avalanche at odds with my throat

stuck.

waves of heat play fiddle with my body

car headlights flashing, it is not a valentine ballet

methodical gestures. shades betray my vision

test my resolutions and mortal attachments

in equal realizations of calling for

satisfaction.

too many secrets

I forgot to keep track of which end is that way

or the getaway

locked in this place doomed to be

the humble ground embracing us

feeding the cycle anew

from atop the peaks the weight crumbles

closer to the Good, The Light and the Love

fuller from companionship of ghosts

of this I have little doubt

in this painting, above my head

below the ceiling in this box

a sailor sets out to sea

as the sunset bridges the currents and calls it quits

perhaps one day his anchor will find a use still

I pray it will be better that way. 

slow on the figuring it out phase

a phrase to inspire, a dead given riot

alarming motivating a whipping is

a bloody mess that soups up by the spoon

a bowl to covet the driving seat

the throne of kings and queens,

a mercy those beneath despair for

down below underground screams

go unheard and forgotten

lost souls to the pyre

dark clouds absorb my guiding light

hard to tell off trees from walls

in this modern existance of spectrums

the countdown to the end of despair is nay or so

the carrot strings me along, in promise and hope

a betrayal of sorts this existance of possibilities

as if owed anything discountent seeps on me skin

my bones, my mind, my soul.

in shambles and hurt

acting out of bounds, for duty binds us to the path

forcefully, do the right thing

expecting others to follow suit in lament

gift us all that we need despite it colapsing the house

we built slowly, manually, in past times of hipnotizing glares

the lent is twisted, feels like the jade has grown dull

to the experienced eye.

to rebuild anew takes a sense of wonder

astray my stars aline in wander instead. 

a wicked thing this

there, a last resort

an exchange of glares, held poorly

hand over the other, mismatch

in tone, shape, colour

as sweat invades the soleem dryness

of skin and awkwardness second to that one

within

ribbons and empty nests

the mating call has seized the essence

of being out of time.

 

I recall being made by fever, a glaring siren

and being full of shit.

needle in the bum, kicked a nurse in the chin and swore to do it again

my childhood is full of spurts of blurs and sirens

a dragged fairytale gone astray, cigarette and whole before anyone relevant took notice

from the sea of stars we step atop the cars the future heads at speed

no stops, no trades, no firsts only last calls and bottoms up your turn.

 

you know you are boring when every song tastes like the last

because they are the only and same

constant nagging voice in the mirror

only you have no mirror the room is dark and you jumped off the window

an encased, lodged really, glass atop the nose caters to the window like a pendulum

blood drifts, filling the space

if I am born but am not told where to go

where should I dive towards in this imperfection ocean of souls. 

the duality of knowing how unwell ecstasy may crumble

remnants of perception interjected inference that the Moon lays not still

but distance irregardless of the evil eye cast away without need for a sacrifice

may the virgins live another day.