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Destined as the servant to the night where |
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your moon dreams of the dirt and the |
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sharp tongue of your zealous will is only |
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congruent with the salt in your mouth and |
|
the approaching eulogy of the world. Lost |
|
in the patterns of youth and the ghost of |
|
your aches comes back to haunt you. And |
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the forging of change makes no difference. |
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Memories fly through the mask of your life |
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shielding you from time. The years that |
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birthed the shell that you gained. Hunched |
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over in apathetic grief with a disregard for |
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steps except the one taken back. Perched |
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up on a rope crafted in smoke / a sword |
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wielding death that buried your hope. |
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Focusing on light through the blinds. A |
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slave to reality under a monarch in the sky. |
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Lost in the patterns of youth where the |
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windows shine brightly back at you. |
