The fall

Your face has

Two years

Of sorrow;

Solitude cheeks,

Rubberized Eyes,

Deep down the aisle,

Black-eyed,

Stone Cold eyelids,

Empty banks of joy,

You know the place

Where the itch started,

My, my, my,

Soft flesh, like white bedsheets in a white room on a bright day,

You are a straight razor,

Eight broken hearts in four months,

My, my, my,

The burden is heavy

For those weak shoulders

Old clothes to cover up

The old joints

Of a new body.

You are a clam,

Something that hits

Rock

Bottom,

You make them feel;

Uncomfortable,

Rational,

Bonded,

Buried under something else.

You can’t sleep

Because you don’t have dreams

Of unknown roads and creamy sunsets,

There is a drill getting closer to your heart,

There is a wasteland in your head

Where a million tires burn and a dozen of

Kids Scavenge the last summer,

It’s a bitter Autumn

Without curtains.

My, my, my,

A drawer has more spirit than you,

But no more silence,

The dead have something to say,

You don’t.

Seven years

Of

Pilgrimage

Through the thick

Fog of myself,

I have found a light,

A firefly,

A lighthouse staring at me,

Mighty cyclops,

Take me home,

I am too tired and weary

I am just waiting for

The

Fall.

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