the sun is a quiet watcher
absorbing walls of sins i produce
and so I sit here on the grounds
so cold and mute
listening, the squealing voices of birds.
The sky that paints a web of corollary
about things lost and things preserved.
the nights abandon my grief too
they have pockets full of primroses
and a chipped river flowing,
I do not wrestle for peace,
i inherit the red sirens that this air produces.
adoring these black nights too
that gulps the sore throat of a desecrated womb,
a picture painted with grief maybe too sickening for the Gods above.
I do not weep
or produce a rhyme about loss, rejection
wandering in eternals lands of pain
my chin sinks in this cacophony
to absorb the air, the light of the sun,
the darkness of the moon.
What is left of me?
Abandoned by all
the final leap of hope.