I write to set you ablaze,
like I couldn’t do with my self.
I write to scorch the earth,
to set your world afire.
I write to make your gods shudder,
with disgust and with awe.
I write because my story has not been written.
I write and you shall read,
because you have a choice.
I write and you shall read,
because you have none.
You are spellbound,
and I am falling from grace.
I write because my tale needs to be told.
I write because my memories are fading,
and gelling,
and losing their taste.
I write because I fear dissipating with them.
I write because I need to,
not because I want to.
I write…
I write a tale of two souls,
of one soul,
of many souls,
of none.
I write of sepia,
and dawn-colored flesh,
and the fading image of the folds of skin around your mouth when it broke into a smile.
I write because it shall never be again.
I write because I am forgetting the smell of the aged skin of her bosom,
the taste of the lapel of her dress,
and the way his coarse hair felt against my cheek.
I write to capture life,
because I am losing it.
And I just found out I am not getting it again.
I write a swirl,
the swelling of a yearning waltz,
of the black dust underground,
the screech of a candle burning an unfaced wall.
I write of clichés that make up my life,
and a life that made the clichés.
I write of a realm beyond,
beyond the clichés,
beyond you,
and more so every passing day,
beyond me.
like I couldn’t do with my self.
I write to scorch the earth,
to set your world afire.
I write to make your gods shudder,
with disgust and with awe.
I write because my story has not been written.
I write and you shall read,
because you have a choice.
I write and you shall read,
because you have none.
You are spellbound,
and I am falling from grace.
I write because my tale needs to be told.
I write because my memories are fading,
and gelling,
and losing their taste.
I write because I fear dissipating with them.
I write because I need to,
not because I want to.
I write…
I write a tale of two souls,
of one soul,
of many souls,
of none.
I write of sepia,
and dawn-colored flesh,
and the fading image of the folds of skin around your mouth when it broke into a smile.
I write because it shall never be again.
I write because I am forgetting the smell of the aged skin of her bosom,
the taste of the lapel of her dress,
and the way his coarse hair felt against my cheek.
I write to capture life,
because I am losing it.
And I just found out I am not getting it again.
I write a swirl,
the swelling of a yearning waltz,
of the black dust underground,
the screech of a candle burning an unfaced wall.
I write of clichés that make up my life,
and a life that made the clichés.
I write of a realm beyond,
beyond the clichés,
beyond you,
and more so every passing day,
beyond me.
