Absence to all that undoes me,
At the brink of the crossroads,
and suddenly I’m sure where my truth lies and head lays.
Abstract for thought,
am I wielding my own future at hand?
Dismal discourse for a penny or two I threw in a fountain,
wishing for the enemy archetype.
To finally be at your hands,
look in the eyes,
the troublesome factor that seems to dispute,
my own recollection,
towards the fact,
that I have blood on my hands.
Washed before a sip of morning coffee.
Through the cacophony of noise,
like hyenas laughing, and somehow you wish you could change your last word.
The last thing you heard was laughing.
The gear slipped.
Somehow I found myself in bed again.
Looking at the ceiling.
Counting the tiles.
The nurse knocks on the door.
Snack time.
There are no locked doors here, only the entrances.
petrichor - archive 