Reflection blurred,
with awe to the thousands,
As I can tell in my own debauchery, I have relived this life before. Yet, I find myself choosing this war again. Feeling this way, the cumulation to whatever it is to survive with my own watered-down weary ways. Only to catch myself complaining, when yesterday was transcendent.
I don’t know why I do these things.
Call myself frail, only to be proven wrong as I push myself towards maximizing.
Weary skills, and weary hearts.
Presume, I am trying.
And only then, once I realized how much I have tried and all that avails me.
Only then will my empathy for myself, reign true.
Bonafide, collected.
Lie nectar on some hummingbird feeder.
And suddenly I am nourished, and all is sweet.
I told you I was working in the ways of saccharine for far too long.
The transition wouldn’t do me well.
Not knowing how to take those bonafide sweet moments, and wonder what lingers around the corner to disrupt whatever peace I was seeking for the moment.
And after, I relish in my sugary rush of emotion. Everyone departs. Everyone leaves. You wait for the next communication. The next text. Fear of a call. And only wonder what’s left, when you take away the observations.
The curtain closes.
And I’m alone in all my darkness, consumed by my hands scratching at the black abyss of velvet I got lost in.
The Star descends.
The Star dies.
Only to awaken for the next show, in her morbid cataclysm of slumber.
petrichor - archive 