Mend or manipulate, my mind is like
A once weighty tree now spliced by my
Own history.
What a dark and lonely step taken
With wide eyes, lazy speech, and breaths
So soundless.
Could I be your home, your inked up
Book of secrets, your brilliant fire swept
Away at night?

Crackling, ensure the ego breaks
Because devotion is absolute.
When you tell white lies I write them
On scrapped paper, glue it to the wall
And paint it over in red, absorb
The preaching phantom who died
And lingered, pretending to be a hero.

How poetic, buildings so tall that they
Scrape the sky; and what falls out?


As many forgotten as pennies on the
Floor, how many for your thoughts?