don’t tell my therapist

-

there is a certain twisted beauty

in setting the world on fire

and from the centre of the flames

watching silently

death breathes burning kisses

against one’s fingertips

there is nothing anyone can do

nothing to salvage

.

there is a certain bitter triumph

in crashing down,

spiralling

when you should be soaring

glare right back at the failing sun

she paints broad strokes of glimmering gold

onto the parched, fragmented landscapes

of your mind

there is nothing anyone can do

to help you

.

and there is a certain sweet sorrow

in witnessing everyone else emerge

victorious

from their struggles within

verisimilitude.

and you flounder in

the acrid burning senses of catastrophe

there is nothing anyone can do

to save you