It was you before time stood still; it was hell walking into desert silence—the blood of bone, marrow in essence, such slingshot pain, if to coddle ideation.
Do you get it? The blankness of saturation, the music of our demons, sordid and passionate darkness.
I was sullen, cut, thrilled to die; so surprised, looking at a friend, unknowing to skies.
I arrived like a mistake, I cursed myself, I was foolish, I embarrassed silence.
Bathing in lusts, seasoned for failure, so uncut, so laced, drinking the Great Angel.
You bring me so low: I realize it never begins, with direct helium floating its scar.
I know life is what you desired, filled with positive memories, I never fitted into a dynamic, those dreams, sure passion, aching, it was deaths; pure witch hazel, some candle in mixtures, to hear a sound one yearns for—those blackened nightmares, the fusion in sunshine, to imagine this drama filled with remedies.
If a meeting were desired, our souls would decline, too much perceptible anguish, life is too tangible.
Like a wizard’s chambers, or a wisdom room, spliced, was it such a secret?
It’s been hellish, a storm, every increment of a daymare; and I wish you longevity, I hope it stops reaching, if but to palm something purely numen.
