Looking out the windows.
It turns to gray.
Looking out for things to.
Hold them, they turn to gray.
I can't feel the breeze.
It dribbles, as it spears.
My grasp, yet tranquil,
more serene.
Now.
It's a siren.
Calling out for me,
as I'm coming up to breathe.
The stillness of the extent.
Points out symptons to make haste.
I quicken my draw,
for danger appears
billowy.
Among the expanse.
Everything's dark.
My relentless quest.
To perceive a vision far more
than poorish excuses, to keep the pretent.
The senseless impression.
That forgetting how to...
Recall the shape of their faces,
among the water's waves.
Importance.
Begs the query:
Is it rather pleasent,
even better to portrait,
to so skillfully neglect
all errands of a dying echo?
Or let it rend to its
ultimate collapse?
A demise that falls behind
The Waterfalls
from where shadows born.
Makes a beacon feels like Home.
Neither just their vision.
My gaze turns opaque
as I think about their voices
crumbling appart into
conceptual shards.
A ceramic made of scars
and sacs of weightless ink.
Permeably stained.
And perpetually aligned,
such a young way to think
the thing, is to visualize without
letting it burn a shadow
on the veneer.
From dragging the heels across
the palid floor, moaning through
The Night.
A white flame lights
a black candle,
again
and again and
again.
My random thoughts turn to gray.
And the only source of colour.
Seems to be your face.
As I try to make it clear...
And I never get.
To get it near-
.
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