_decisions

decisions resolve. decisions are character builders. shutting down possible trails they entwine life with living. there's a man hunched in my life. dwelling in the fortress of premature decisions he hangs from loose wire stored in my mentality. not real but not fake. i listen to him. the voice of a fiend dressed as a savior. dripping with fact he himself lacks decisions. he is every possible trail i've made. his face is darkened by the hood he wears. he bears intelligence. eats sagacity and spits thoughts. contaminated ways of dying. he kills me. the man that seldom turns around faces a large scripture. my life's beginning and the end. with a marking tool existing only in my nightmares he etches every mistake. every blessing. whatever he writes i live. i cannot fend. i cannot cry. his tentacles are squeezing my head. creative juices are dry. i try to cope. his eyes are connected with mine. he sees what i know. and i know what he sees. the boy that grew up too fast. that screwed up. the boy who has seen death. the boy who's afraid. under my skin he stretches. deadly and poisonous his destructive sight lingers in the crowd and my face is set in a guillotine. artistically shut down i am the mans manipulative creature. he is just there. i've never seen him. i've never known him. i know nothing of him, but he is me. i know nothing of him. but he is me. and there we were severed and unattached from each other as we gazed distant into the entwined path. with a slight imprint in the earth. telling us how abnormal we are. we cried while holding hands on that final night in this place. our voices summed up with dust, we kissed in your room and under your roof, screaming like death, bleeding dark into the sheets. it was abandon on the edge of the city but we know everyone was quietly floating along the bottom of the cold river. so we sleepwalked through the tears where the black painted path curved into the ocean and the shattered smiles lay, and the hostile smell of burning was on you like a beautiful sickness. in our infection of passion you said, death is a nighttime runner. the sky had come crashing down like the news of a personal suicide. we picked up the pieces and formed them into shapes of shooting stars that resembled the feel of your past wedding dress. the echoes of the past killed the hearts of the lovers as the ferris wheel peacefully slowed to a stop. the few liars skittered away in hopes of a better existence. i kissed you at the peek of this bedlam and asked if you would hold me in a quick fall, but you showed me that my ticket wasn't good for two. i fell alone. you said; my love. you are falling like snow. there is love in despair, and we sang with long lived beauty, bitter eulogies of savagery and remembrance. of black and grey. how strange that we joined each other running down familiar streets and carved our names in the flesh of that city. the moon had stagnated somewhere beneath the rim of the horizon. the darkness is a mystery of shadows and lines. still we lay under the emptiness and drift slowly outward, and somewhere in our eyes we found salvation scratched into each others tears.

and there i was, lost again in the absolute beauty of her.