The sight of it all,
is just strain of bitter lye that coats the stomach,
roughs to no lies of it all,
spend to nowhere,
cut blue center diamond covered in blood,
bled out slowly,
surely of what it could have been,
so off from being sweet,
thick honey,
that bees never make,
nor come near it to building homes,
may it never,
ever be a dream,
that leads to nowhere,
ends nowhere,
and has no real start of it all,
vive of it all,
being in a loud,
endless, bone shattering,
run dry scream,
as it lays out across the mist,
so substantial the black shades,
form shame from it all,
as the red pond’s streams,
running as veins,
lacking in wine smears,
that dyed the land,
beyond repair,
into the lone sad lake,
far afield that bleeds smears of tears of souls from the tree limbs,
soon in who of with who,
jump from sleep,
looking out the window,
feeling the inner smell of disgust,
of what realty becomes,
and soon not at all,
as a radio song plays,
sweet music it plays,
lovely to the ears,
stunning the heart,
of what could have been,
looking around once more,
till out the window once more,
sun will shine soon in a few hours,
splashing into a spray,
that wouldn’t be the last,
yet of a reminded of what could have been,
if they never ended,
where could the world,
have gone,
beyond the fails and trails it all,
living after horror,
is a win,
small at times,
but so welcoming when not,
so hardly into a dark space,
that would have been the last,
place to remember.




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