Install Theme
These things.

You broke the ice
and I fell under

your skin

mapping scars
like constellations

that I couldn’t follow

these veins
don’t lead to you

and I hated the sun
that hid your stars

I walked the streets
to find the moon

and woke up

still 

tangled in you.

 

If they burn down the city to show you the light,
they’ll leave you buried in the smog, 
forever a shadow

even if the flame writes love,
the smoke sings loss,
and hides the way home
as it blackens the purest light

is the dance of the flame
worth the loss of your way,

or will you turn to find the stars?

Our lives are now

gridlocked
equally spaced
lined with
numbers
lights

that guide us home

and though it may be more difficult, 

we must still wander
get lost

follow stars

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If it explodes,

light into darkness
darkness into light

will the flames move too quickly
for us to watch the end

or will we dance in the colours
skin basked in light

as the edge crawls forward

a darkness that doesn’t leave a void

They say, “In the end everything will work out.

It will have been worth it, and we can 
sleep
without these memories of hate and loss,
destruction and war, and all the misfit 

thoughts and wasted magic of in-between

will disappear.”



And they say it with such conviction in their

eyes, pulling the skin down, tight, across

their cheekbones as they’re trying to smile, 

settling their bones down into chairs that 

won’t let them relax after another day of

this torture they’ve made their life.



I’ve always wondered why they’re content

waiting until the end.

The vibrations collide with silence
making webs across my skin
until all sound is forgotten
in the search for hope and sin.

Now all the picture frames are breaking
and their faces crawling through
but no longer can they haunt me
while I’m wrapped in ghosts of you.

As the world is spinning ’round
I stay still but lost in sound
and even though I wrote this play
I question it from day to day
so I stay circling the spot
where I decide for all or not

Does a feeling float or sink?
Or does it stay caught on the brink
between our spirits and our past
and everything that couldn’t last?

If I can’t define what’s true,
I can’t form words to get to you
but if I move I lose the sound
that keeps me rooted to the ground