Sorrow is a dove held up on paper wings,
Without wind it drops from the sky towards oblivion
Love is a singularity, a black hole, pulling everything inwards
With this immense gravity, not even light can escape,
Which is why I've been writing unopened letters in the dark.
Hope is a touch, memories a blazing furnace
Forging a blade of which I do not yet know the form.
Form follows function: wishes to cease to feel
For numbness sake,
Spitting out volatile embers I had once renowned.
I had once a bonfire in a garden of ashes;
I had once rejoiced upon the meeting of fuel and flame.
All bullets glide on the wings of doves,
Never forgotten...
Silence is a ghost,
Sleep a virtue
Sanity a gift
As day after day a cold room slips into a frigid night
Falling upon my paper wings.