They wrote songs about your mrs.
Danced in the embers
of her footsteps.
They worshiped her beauty
and praised her wit,
begging you to appreciate
the love in her eyes.
But it was the attention she welcomed,
atracted into your home,
that drilled the desire to rebuild.
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a specific kind of sadness
that rolls with the fog
in the moonlit hours
of your mind
when the sun’s still shining.
I have been read cover to cover
dust blown off my skin,
slowly opened to
the writings of a madman.
My blood skimmed
and veins pushed aside,
for greedy eyes to feast
on inscriptions in bone.
My stories have been read
but never understood
between the cells.
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The night you called to me
under a moon that showed
no remorse for the undeserving,
you sang not a song,
but the screams of guilt
to whomever around would listen.
You came to me with mouth agape,
begged me to listen to the sorrows
of every man and woman tortured,
wading in the water you’ve poured.
You came to me with pleading eyes,
and all I could think to do was laugh.
A thousand years from now we will not be us,
We will be another entity on a plane
beyond the comprehensibility
of these simple minds.
We will be drifters; floating between
lines of angels and hellfire,
searching for what we had in the living.
Our flesh had been feeding worms
while we waited in the dark
for our roles to be assigned,
And a thousand years from now
We will grow sick of being still,
look for the movement
that claimed our attention
prior to this new normal.
You do not have to see to believe;
Many go their entire lives never
knowing what lies beneath the flesh.
The same is true to pain;
You do not have to see it
to know that it is there.
It can manifest in silence, hidden
in the dark, like the mind’s magic trick,
never stepping into the spotlight,
only controlling the costume changes
safely behind the stage curtains,
studied not beyond a name in the credits.