Her life was a by-product
of my rotting flesh,
set in a dysmal still-life
where she was my only color.
The past was a blur
plunged in a hypodermic needle;
smoke-filled chambers of thought Coalesce-
ideas Congeal.
The form she usually held was an open hand,
a broken heart, even a bridge Between.
Sadly, today she was but a blank piece of burning paper,
expressionless.
Her facade shimmered before me,
ever-changing,
as she leapt into my hand,
settling into her luminous revelation
I ran with and
squirm I do, only to
consume and remove
these criss-crossed truths;
static-constraints
shackling Inherent definition.
She struggled, fading into a deep blue,
"Is it always this hard,
to be just what You Are?" she exhales,
exhausted,
and jumps from out of my head,
crossing unthinkable distance
only to splatter her brains and suicide
upon the wall of
her Readers' Misunderstanding.
