From the light to the sky, earth to earth. It's more beautiful than unreal.

I am unsaid, and unsafe, and untold, and I cannot even begin to tell you how.

I hear longing in everything. I hear melancholy in everything. I see sorrow in the emaciated blueprints of hope.

I hear a fragile cry in the shadows, in the lacuna. I hear a plea in the void, in the swelling emptiness. There is pain, trailing quietly from desperation.

I hold this in my outstretched arm, the world. In all the deafening melody, I want to be immersed in an ocean of song.

You are an ocean of songs

"A good and virtuous nature may recoil
In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon:
That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose;
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
Though all things foul must wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace must still look so."

-William Shakespeare

Forget love, I just want you to make sense to me tonight.

An island. Like all islands.

Fire is everywhere. Everywhere,

It tastes beautiful.

I saw the dreams in their chariots, they said,

"Goodbye."

I could feel the stars burn,
I could feel the night burn,
and I said,

"It tastes beautiful."

The oceans and the mountaintops were
curtains - drapery.

The sky was not blue.

They watched me burn, they did not say

that I looked beautiful.

The ashen remains,

well I swear,

there was a strong breeze I swear.

I said,

I bet it feels good,

the fire,

fire, fire, fire, fire,

I said,

"It feels so beautiful."

That's what I said.
I swear it's not what I said.

That's all there was.

Me and fire.

Imagine it. Imagine it.

What does it look like ?

Could you see the night ?

I bet it was beautiful.

See, it was crimson,
an ocean of red, red, red.

See, it was red,
an ocean of blue, blue, blue.

Could you see it ?

Well, there was me and fire,
and I saw the dreams,
and they were beautiful,
and I was beautiful.

I swear I was strong.
I put the fire out all by myself.

Alone, see,
I could feel the night,
could you ?

The sky was in my eyes,
did you bother

to see the most magnificent thing in the world ?

It really was something beautiful.

Me and fire.

And there was a sonata,
a pull of strings.

I could hear it,
and it was me.

The most harmonic thing in the world.

Could you see the sky ?

I wasn't even there !

That wasn't me !

I am beautiful !

And this means nothing at all. All this. Burn it.

Derelicts, righteous derelicts. They stand across the fence. Upon the land charred by their enemies, scorched, barren, desolate. Yet, their heads remain held high, monuments of defense, fortressses amidst the raging. They are outcasts, they are transcendence and purity. They rise as towering citadel, as fierece shields of passive denial. Denial of defeat, a denial of conquer, a denial of submission. Truth, harbingers of truth. Outcasts. You cannot fell them.

Moon. That's what they said. Moon, I'm sure of it.
A moon and a scar.

Scar.
Murderer.

Broken, lying wounded in the moon, crimson moon. Robed in life, a seepage, flowing out upon you. You are dressed in a hole, a gaping emptiness, vacuum of pain.

Numbness. Passion, an infinite relationship. Broken you like there hanging by a loss of time.

Eyes shut, no.
Eyes closed, adrift in a pool of hope.

Black and white, I see clearer.

Violet, crimson hues wing by me. Soaring, happy faces, happy faces.

Happy faces reflected in a bowl of water, crystal, mirror. It is dark. Darkness hovers like a canopy, suspended above me. Light flashes and light dies, births and victories, losses. Fire jumps a double, roped in powdered purple gems. A footprint blackens the cleaned glass. Another outsteps the other. And so on until all that is left are flashbacks, fragments, fragrant memories of who stood where and why, and where I was when they did. What happened to dreams ? Folded away, cutouts and cardboard, felt pen, crayons. Vaporise into empty space. While melancholy drapes on either side of me, and traps my way back. Outside there are prohibitions, fences built of fabric floating away, waiting to be stitched, coloured, sorted, worn. Not folded away on some shelf. Grey, infinite, overexposed, crazed, varied in luring traps set to trap themselves. Purity suffocates. Purity blossoms, hopes piled beneath footsteps. Barebodied in a place like nowhere, my face left in the forgetting heap, I wish. I wish I could swirl into focus, find a place in the confluence of hypotheses and missing parts.

No, I will not join you thank you, I would rather stay by myself, and do what I guess I was meant to be doing. Tangible success is not my prize course. Do I even belong anywhere ? As blame shifts and disappointment taints the hollow shafts of silent, muffled pain. Was it meant for me to watch sleep tick away, no sleeves to roll up, no buttons to loosen, no more songs to sing.

No more ways to convince you that I may be right.

When rain falls in pieces and the wind blows in the dark, and I am nowhere but here and everywhere. In the blackest of rooms. When passive embraces teem in unsuspecting places, hiding, waiting to pounce on those who are hurt by them. When walls fall down and defenses shift, when ideas bloom and love is ethereal, and the chase is half over because you want to run back home, that's when I cry.

That's when I thank you mother, to come here and look at me. I swear I don't deserve this, but every part of that. When you take and don't give, when you fall and lay gazing at the trodden dirt and see another print of jaws next to it, it is then when I begin to hope. Maybe someday I will be loved, maybe one day my time will be worth that little more. The minimal falling and maximum rising, right. Profits are for the blackhearts. And I will not be blackhearted, no. Blurs and recurring faces, endless disappointment, endless expectation. Endless plans, endless failure. Are you the bread for all your butter, I will have toast and jam. It tastes like home, home where I belong. I belong here, at home. Home. Home...

Home.

That's where it is. Home.

Home, I'm home, home.

Sunlight is only for the mornings.

Heartbreakingly disappointing.

I'm sorry.

Whispered
in the mist,
and moonlight,
black hair against white silk,
mornings left alone.

Music in the gaps,
but I believe,
you can't ever escape at all.

Good Frozen Morning

Ross, The World

Gretchen, The World

Yes, it was more like a rush of power.

December Weather

A bitter humor in the way I speak, how could I let you leave my side ?

This could have been something amazing. I see I have changed, I see that I speak kniving wounds, I see that I stab you with my words.

I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't, but it would be so empty.
Maybe I should.

But this is me, I guess.

But who am I but a saboteur to myself ?

And let your hollow pieces walk away...

For a moment, I felt like I could soar. A grace that encompassed me, daring me to embrace it. I didn't, and I know I should have, because it was beautiful. I can rise. I know I can, because I did. Just now, and it felt magical. So magical that I felt like I could soar.

Everything is glowing, and the air sifts through the room like a dust from some forgotten realm.

I can tell where you stop and where I begin ..

A gentle melody plays, a subtle beat carries it to a graceful voice. Singing not so graceful things, or maybe the most.

Darkness pervades your music, a happiness of fulfilment and great, great failure. My failure.

A sweeping, gentle melody.

A subtle, dangerous beat.