How nice it would be to become a poet
To make a life for yourself,
Spun from the words of your soul.

However, life is a fickle friend
It counts down the time
Until we evolve into from whence we came

If time were truly infinite,
We would all reach our potential.

Is it cruel?
That life continues on?
While our spirit fades into the background.
We remain frozen in time.

Stuck, alone, with no escape.
Is it cruel?
That the memories we made are truly meaningless.

1/31/2017 // 10:51 am



Glimmering hope spills down the jagged edges of the mountain,
Tentatively moving its tendrils towards the base.
The deep orange glow seeks to warm a heart so cold,
Its tentacles slithering towards the reverberating organ.

At last it grabs hold,
Grappling with the numbing touch of its flesh.
The pink flesh pounding harder as each tendril takes hold.
Slowly it begins to thaw.

The amber beast seeks to comfort,
to mend the flesh of the broken.
Its fleshy extremities grabbing blindly at those who have lost hope
Let the warm wash over you until you are whole again.

1/31/2017 // 8:03 am