Apology is the word for you. Moments gone to time and dust. Tongue still dry it whispers dark. Howling low it knows the tune.
Drawn to Dark, you antiflame. Vibrations will not stop, still it turns. Threaded and lost in the eddy of fear. My bleeding gums shine bright.
Night repeating as burned out day. Floating above dream’s breath. A loop then ride before the flames.
I am awake in the dark, pretending otherwise. Breathing slow, remaining still. Dread crawls the ladder of my spine.
Rushing winds on stagnant water. Life’s elements decay in dark. Reaching out, your friends now gone forever. The shutter dulls a ceaseless pain. There was a time I may have whispered into you.
There is a spark I feel and it is a precious thing. As the building crumbles the fire flares inside. I am a painter, an art form dead generations before. I don’t care the flame shall be nurtured, it calls my name.
It really feels like the end of days still the sun is shining. My modest 401k has gone away even as the snow turns back to ground. Finance and health aside the stretching days are filled with light. Thankful this didn’t happen in the darkened depths of Fall.
It’s a strange kind of prophecy, crying in the parking lot. Not sure you were a genius knowing it all ends in pain. You held my wreck-less station. I’m still standing in the shadows, waiting in the rain.
Healing wounds through obliteration. The erosion of every living thing. Document and memorialize, the void is gaping thee.
Through the Pane
I don’t like to plan, so much to do. Grand aspirations only seem to disappoint. The tedious artistic attitude, dissatisfied with work. I appreciate the positives regardless of the height. Nothing competes with the feeling of creation. Something new and alive, glimpsed through the pane.