It's starting as an autumn of disappointing youth
Leaves were art are matter and will be shit
You can smell, top of the throat, dry-lipped
The flutter of Black wings as dust sets
And, infected with silence, implosion
You see, can almost feel. Leaves. falling, drifting
Shadows juggled, flickered sunlight
And beat. And beat. And beat. And.
I'm not what I meant to be.
Dreams smeared away, decayed, forgotten
Present tense. Present tense past. Last.
Eyes have black hearts; minds a cruel flavor
Reminiscence cast ahead, a Fisher King's Line
I was have failed become what,
Am not success, who wants success
And who is not what is not me
Or is what who I think?
My reality hurts, the doctor said
Put Ice ON It i said I always fucking put Ice on it I don't come to a doctor if I can just fix it by fucking putting Ice on it at home and he said Put More Ice ON It and i said ok
I guess I grew up yesterday. Maybe this morning
Sometime around the swirl of the coffee
Or the coughing of cobwebs from ambient eyes
I could've sworn I was nothing a few hours ago
fairly certain existence wasn't, oblivion adrift
The encapsulated meaning of the universe
In the void outside of mind
Tiny tremendous ants on march
A slightest spark in the brightest brain
A bite caught flame and screaming
A bolt from the sky, sizzling ecstasy, and ashes
Not here.
Not now.
But I see, can almost feel.