Saturday, October 10

Death of the Sun

Our thoughts bleed like rain,
madness ensues; from the death of the sun.
We are born in fire---crystallized in the memory of a broken world,
the valves of our hearts, pump sand through our veins.
Nothing matters.
There is no feeling.
Stop this burning silence,
I'm scraped raw by the absence of you.
In your death,
I am nothing.
has it always
been this way?