In reverence of holy figures, shapes swim in the incandescent glow of tomorrows sun.
In place of woods, where trees grow tall, silent shapes of my forgotten mind take place of mirages glowing, high, high.
Where god rests, the bastard child sleeps, you forget where these avenues lead.
I forget to spit, yet, I cry.
On a quiet morning, you stir, gently moving the sheets. I see your figure under the covers. You’re beautiful.
I want to lay beside you. I want you to feel & understand, I want to understand you. Consider this an excerpt of soul, a narrative of lamentation.
How? How is it I see you? I see the room in which you sleep, I see the chair in which I sit.
The sound of music slowly sneaks it’s way around the room.
I sit smoking, watching you lie undisturbed. Wherever you are, it seems nice. Your face says such. I slowly take a long pull of my cigarette & take a deep breath. I feel anxious. I stare out the window & see the fire escape. Beyond that, black windows stare back at me.
Into the mercy seat I climb.
I think long, I think hard. I feel strange. This cant be real, yet it feels so much so.
I want your fire. I want to breath in the sweet aroma of your love. I want to bathe in your glow, & bask in your aura. There are so many things I want to you know & there’s so much I want to know about you. I see your chest rise at an even pace. You seem so peaceful, you seem so real.
Enough of the lies, I move to say something but all I can do is watch the ink from my pen bleed onto the paper. I resign from any attempt at all because I’ve realized the saddest part of this whole thing. This excerpt of soul, this narrative of lamentation.
You aren’t real.
You know he’s percsin hawmie
I am definitely under the assumption that at a time of extreme technological growth, we as human beings are slipping further & further back to an even more extreme place of ignorance, laziness & apathy.
Culture is something you share, not something you use to combat others with.