False promises of life set in stone;
wilted flowers of the artificial infinite.
Finger painted squiggles tattoo my heart-
blood pounds against the scorch of innocence.
My souls a crumbed peddle,
dusted marrows sink to earth in a twilight sun.
I don’t fear tomorrow, don’t cower the next,
mere quivers and cold shadows on my back.
Life’s a game to the dead- a cruel mouse trap for the living
but the superfluous is never itself enough.
Screeching insects never mind the devouring,
there is no sin where weakness lies.
No man feels the final breath,
dances fingers through the silky silhouettes of expired souls.
Yet how could you gear for a war,
when all man’s battles are won with eyes closed?