Victims of Damnation. 

“If you could see into the future, what would you save?”

“My soul”  



I can’t remember the last time

I went to sleep

Without worrying about


This life 

Is as fragile as silence. 

And all it takes is

A word… 

And utterance… 

A voice… 

And everything comes down

Like an avalanche. 

With so many pieces of myself

On the floor

It became pointless

To hoist


On fingerless walls, 

When my own hands

Could barely

Hold me together. 


I have become accustomed to

The taste of

Spilt blood

On the lips of

Shattered glass… 

And as I pick these pieces

One by one

I can’t help but wonder,

Perhaps pain

Is the currency of life… 

The more we break, 

The lighter we become… 

The smoother our edges…

The smaller our shells…

The harder our skin.

I can’t remember the last time

I went to sleep

Without worrying about


How much more of myself 

Will I spend

To stay


Of Kings & Men. 

It hurts because this


Was granted

After we gave lives

On grounds

That wore their cars, 

And where the road ran wet

With dying life

They lay blood carpets

On the earth, 

And raised


In memory of the dead. 

It hurt, 

Because we battled


With beating hearts

And screaming tongues

As if it was

The only way to pray to men

That played 


It hurt, 

More than anything, 

Because we buried sons

In soil burn by

The heat

Of a million sunrises, 

And yet

Only other men 

Came around


To be our true Kings.

It hurt,

Because none of them

Could speak

For our pain… 


I think

Every form of art

Is brewed in


In spaces inside the earth

That remain


Undisturbed by energies

That have stolen

Everything else

That made the world


Often I find myself 


To the silence… 

To the tranquility… 

So much that

Whatever energy I find

Off of people

It ripples in my aura, 

& only

The pure

Remain content

With the reflection of themselves

That spills

Into the pools of

My eyes.

I have lost track of 

How long 

I have been 



I loved that

She was mine…

Body & soul…

And if ever I was told

She would take me


I wouldn’t believe

That something that

Takes away

The cold

Could be any


Empty Places. 

I think

These late hours

Were never meant for 

Children of the sun, 

Whose eyes

Remain unblinded 

To the relic from heaven. 

I think 

These late hours

Were meant for 

The moon, 

For the world 

Filled with so much


That even gravity 

Doesn’t hold on to anything.

It’s funny,

The emptiest places have

The heaviest hearts.