Hate is a jurisdiction over the undying love that we proclaim as heartless passions and oblivious perversions pass us by silently and we watch as their long tails disappear into the mist.
The empty rooms of this house in which we exist smell
the putrid smell of hearts afire and burning plastic music with dull, pounding notes making holes in the walls.
Meaningless words and sentimental dowry are burdens to our existence and fill the gaps which we call time.
But what is time? When you are alone, or I am alone,
or when loneliness savors sweet triumph? When
mockingbirds cry or when starlight is torn, when
twilight is dead but roses are born? Time is a season,
or is it a myth?
Or is it just a sweet caress of friends unknown in this past life
As your heart beats in time with mirrored lace and
lavender lilacs lying sweetly in the earth, I hear its true
intentions, and feel its true sad
I know what truth is. When rain stops falling and flowers start dying. When oceans stop singing and fireflies start crying. And —
the bitter realization of you.
You are the truth —
the heavenly fragrant, pathetically withering,