The bitter green leaves turning to their slowing rust hold on to wood with thread bear strings fluttering in sick winds, blowing through emptying parks where I once touched skins with strangers in darkness.
Flowing down towards crisp black soul soil, awaiting the death of the green life when the right time arrives that I hoped would never come on those long sweet tongued evenings.
I still don't remember all the names of the silk angels I touched in those places and left heartbroken with snapped nails, dirt stained skin and torn dresses, crying black make-up down flesh cheeks, salted and crumbling as I turn to the next pure form ready to destroy. Only ever wanting to find a love of truth, of poetry, of beauty and of pain like it is in dreams.
Bitten through the words I always wanted to hear and say to the figurine in all the smoke filled windows behind cracked alleyways overflowing with old memories and my dead friend still wanting my love in the ways it should never have been given the chance to be.
I can't find a way across the broken splintered city bridge but I can clearly see it from the roof tops I am ready to fly from.
If only I knew a way back, a way back to hoping for hope through my honest knowing of nothing in furrows of fear on sweating brows above squinting no sight eyes overlaid with glasses not strong enough to work in the ways they should or shouldn't. Who cares? Who knows and why would they?
Why should they when I am left looking alone at the now empty trees, empty parks and empty skins of snakes sliding out across my empty dreams.
Autumn arrived after a summer of trying to write it down but getting nowhere, getting lost, getting confused and trying to get along with myself.
But the fight remains, with all the chewed bones and bile spat back into my face as I realise no one matters like I thought they might, not even me, not even my words.
Flowing down towards crisp black soul soil, awaiting the death of the green life when the right time arrives that I hoped would never come on those long sweet tongued evenings.
I still don't remember all the names of the silk angels I touched in those places and left heartbroken with snapped nails, dirt stained skin and torn dresses, crying black make-up down flesh cheeks, salted and crumbling as I turn to the next pure form ready to destroy. Only ever wanting to find a love of truth, of poetry, of beauty and of pain like it is in dreams.
Bitten through the words I always wanted to hear and say to the figurine in all the smoke filled windows behind cracked alleyways overflowing with old memories and my dead friend still wanting my love in the ways it should never have been given the chance to be.
I can't find a way across the broken splintered city bridge but I can clearly see it from the roof tops I am ready to fly from.
If only I knew a way back, a way back to hoping for hope through my honest knowing of nothing in furrows of fear on sweating brows above squinting no sight eyes overlaid with glasses not strong enough to work in the ways they should or shouldn't. Who cares? Who knows and why would they?
Why should they when I am left looking alone at the now empty trees, empty parks and empty skins of snakes sliding out across my empty dreams.
Autumn arrived after a summer of trying to write it down but getting nowhere, getting lost, getting confused and trying to get along with myself.
But the fight remains, with all the chewed bones and bile spat back into my face as I realise no one matters like I thought they might, not even me, not even my words.