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#1
I, Wither, Night.

collages of candelabrum conspire
as the heavens retire,
and in this theory; everything will end.

I; the melancholiac, will remember
the withering and feathers,
falling to the ground like snow,
while everyone else chooses to believe
that the night isn't mourning.
it's just accepting the passing of it's own.

I; the melancholiac, will remember
the morning we all came together,
to watch this conventional end.

we'll pass on our terse good-byes;
but think about each other every night.
and we'll lay awake listing things to say
but forget about writing them the very next day.

these candelabra will flicker out one at a time.
until only heaven is left to shine.
this perishing is final.

and it's a perfect ending.



i am somebody/i am some body

a monument is constructed in memory of a mundane moon,
in lieu of an aptly delusional dirge;
whose carved-over descriptions would dress the headstone,
as ivy would drape across the ivory-towered mourners,
who repudiate the fact or lie of life after death.

so instead of those words,
they'll fashion a tarnished crucifix
from broken twigs mixed with mud.
face it towards a dust-stained wall,
and claim it's ashamed, or abandoning us all.

while we'd wade through this distraught town,
we'd attempt to embrace the statue-esque crowds
after we've buried ourselves underneath
anything that'd make us feel better.

and the deconstruction of these masses
is overbearing and the heavens fall.
but this funeral is postponed,
as ashen snow dances with the clouds.

and it's something beautiful that we just don't quite understand,
but we'll all rejoice and imagine what life will be like after we finally can.
until then we'll bound ourselves to prayer and attempt to transcend;
the ones who've given up on sleep.
the ones who've given up on each other.
the ones who've given up on themselves.
the ones who've given up only in the end.

but never once before, because there always seemed to be something worth fighting for.
there was always something worse fighting towards.



I have lost all accounts of suspended mirrors

oh, chancellour, chancellour;
hear our bellowed cries.
we demand immediate attention.

we've gone through and passed,
and can recite all lines strictly from memory;
alas, we birth multiple meanings,
but they're based entirely on what was gathered from the reading.

"o, what doth this restless crowd leave on me?"

so condescending; lest the descent adhere with our every word.
elusive worries depend on an absent mind:
which take cautious precedence to our incandescent rise.

therefore, we dedicate our nighttime to some text,
written in the dust on the floor 'neath a creator's foot.
we understand that everything depends on our stance; on a point of view.

- "I could string a slew of words together.. in order to fashion some sort of figurative necklace;
to hang from your neck as to keep any of its meaning from going straight to your head."


"..and what has that to do with one bearing such high stature as I? What has that to do with anything being said?"


- "I just want you to fucking look good."

oh, embrace the qualities of such a standard enemy;
'you know you're all nothing more than numbers to me.'