A Forest

The eyes stayed closed as the sounds crawled past. In them were the promises of a time that was once my own. I had them if only for a moment. They were the very things that took me too long to consider. Now hey are no longer the means to make the dream seep from the sheets I stained with your blood. A sacrifice to a manner of flesh and sweat. They held me in the way that scorpions embrace the prey of the sand world. It shifts with the notions of the wind, the carrier of the souls who are yet to be judged. I may have seen you for a moment, weeping silently, but the sound is familiar enough for me to hear it even among the scream of my own mind, the drowning contrition. The way the cackling of days long decayed come back in torrents of embers that cling to my flesh and fill the air with smoking flesh, the sent of sorrow manifested. I would beg for the chance to hold you whilst your skin turned blue, for the winter air was fiery beside the idea of your body. Drown as we may, in our own ideas and the poisons that we cloud our minds with, rage at the capacity to hold fleeting clarity. It is not the place we promised ourselves in the drunken desire that took too strong a charge of our actions.

Cut not the strings I have used to have used to sown my chest closed. The rib cage still missing, and the lungs tend to press the heart agains the walls of my body. So I sit and watch the blood pump through the rotten organ I once call my heart. You named it such in a moment of naivity