Victims of Damnation. 

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

“My soul”  

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Tomorrow. 

I can’t remember the last time

I went to sleep

Without worrying about

Tomorrow. 

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

Mirrors

On fingerless walls, 

When my own hands

Could barely

Hold me together. 

Slowly, 

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

Tomorrow,

How much more of myself 

Will I spend

To stay

Alive? 

Of Kings & Men. 

It hurts because this

Peace

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

Stones

In memory of the dead. 

It hurt, 

Because we battled

Bullets 

With beating hearts

And screaming tongues

As if it was

The only way to pray to men

That played 

God. 

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

Claiming 

To be our true Kings.

It hurt,

Because none of them

Could speak

For our pain… 

Purity. 

I think

Every form of art

Is brewed in

Silence…

In spaces inside the earth

That remain

Pure… 

Undisturbed by energies

That have stolen

Everything else

That made the world

Clean. 

Often I find myself 

Addicted

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 

Alone. 

Fire. 

I loved that

She was mine…

Body & soul…

And if ever I was told

She would take me

Alive,

I wouldn’t believe

That something that

Takes away

The cold

Could be any

Colder… 

New Things. 

You’d think even

Artists

Would learn to think of

New ways 

To love, 

But then I suppose

They’d be

Stuck

Drawing the same thing,

And the heart

Prefers

New things. 

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

Absence

That even gravity 

Doesn’t hold on to anything.

It’s funny,

The emptiest places have

The heaviest hearts.