Open your mouth and taste the dust.
Euphoria comes at a price and this time, it chooses the better.
Look at your pale hand grasp that bridge to bemusement.
Can you force the dust of your heritage up to your mind?
Can you feel the rush of thirty-eight hands pulling from all sides?
Eyes as bright as neon and lights as dim as violent heretics.
Livid with silence, the loud crashes of a gentle wind alert
and with tool in hand the one falls into the floor and falls ever deeper.
SCREAM as you hit the bottom of the coaster and flail the water
that only exists to pull you from your truth.
My veins are aching for an answer as they repeatedly call for you.
Not going to. I’m not going to. I am not going to. I AM NOT GOING TO!
What am I to do? I haven’t the problem. Could empathy be to blame?
And as reflections of dust and razors litter the floor I cry for your hand.
WHY CANâ€T I JUST FEEL! I DON’T WANT THESE EXTREMES ANY LONGER!
The hours pass. The dust collects. The blades rust. The reflection fades.
And as these objects of passion, desire and solace leave, so do I, more or less.
