Pasts Are Slain

I am a piece of paper softly bent by the winds of our prayers the whims in which we care alone I am softly landing here. Cover your hearts and hit the deck this might hurt for a while as the jukebox repeats of the sojourns of wooded pastels that highlight the various highs, and underscore the cacophonic lows etched in stone the bedrocks piously as good turns to grief. Volcanic shores overflown with hopes and dreams scattered like shipwrecks in the night as the obsidian winks in glints as candle light against the pocket watch face. Waves turn over with the welcoming effect of low pressure in midsummer nights the agony as our eyes get lost as the hot water rolls in breathtaking cascades that spray the being whole. Guitars strum off in the back of the house as melodies tide overflowing with labored breathing as we tuck our cares into bed and dive feet first into the smoke hoping for smooth landings as we sink into the ruby abyss. Alone, Alone, Alone below the raging seas sepia heartbeats dance to a bellowed stripped down version of inertia as the carbonation rises from lungs too young to know the roads they have traveled. Worn in from children parents, improper placement, forgotten time lines, retired before they appeared. Pilgrims from sadder shores swept along the tide of ambient activity sacraments of place and time the weltering hums of the engines drifting softly to sleep.

Buried on a Monday grumbles shoot the breeze as the fresh young faces are stood upon hoping that goblins can become giants and from giants to become the means of how we dream the end would always be. Graveyard beds rock as they are dug up over and over in a rest to put the memory to shame heavy is the head, hovering below our bodies drift out to sleep. Voices hush and the candles lull as the whispers spray wine vaporing the chemtrails of our hearts as mystic music drifts quietly from bended knees and oak worn hearts. If you would just look into my eyes I would come alive again.