fallofseasons

We are at war, But war is our peace: Yet we always insist on demanding wars cease. And yet without them, We always do cry, Our tears - the paper of memories, Beneath the great, boundless sky. And we put the paper away, So our memories dry, Drying beneath our sin, sun, and sky. But bearing no stone script, Those faded, pure pages, Become locked forever away, unto ages of ages, To lie in front us, behind us, But forever to bind us. And as we sit in our self-made cages, We're forever reminded Of the wars in front and behind us, Unto ages of ages.

Where is the end? To the beginning We were always told to tend. In the end, We are told, Life's a faint-hearted inning Of a game, Of a time, That has lost its beginning.

They first put him under a microscope when his wife left him. He didn't know who they were. He didn't try to understand them either. He knew "them" to be some impossible concept that he could never put his finger on. He tried not to think of them at all. He lived with his wife monogamously for twenty five years now. "Yes, twenty five years," he estimated roughly while laying alone in bed for the first time in those years. It was on this precise bed that he had conceived three children. It was on this precise bed that the imprint of the trunk that he had bought his wife for a Christmas ten years ago (as a hint of a coming vacation that never

       Fear. I feel the muscles of my back tighten. A sensation of nausea sweeps over me. No, I can't. No, I won't. Except that I don't know what either of those mean. The thought of negation reassures me. I can still think if I negate – I just can't go into that wall again, that wall where the world becomes a horror to behold. I'll negate it so I can still function… barely. I'm on the floor. My palms are turned upward toward heaven as my hands and arms lay on the cold tiled floor. Shivers creep down my spine at the thought of the cold. I ignore the thought. My legs lay on the ground, devoid of any feeling, even of the characteristi

A flicker? Yes, I am, And, no, I'm not - No one to help me deal with this explosive thought. Explosive? Do I imply implosive, really? Am I really real? Or am I just - A flicker? Oh, wretched silence, Wretched rot: Do not reply so loud! No one can hear your mute vibrations Except my explosive trepidations And rotten thoughts - galore! I shall expire and I'll be no more Than... A flicker?

 A candle illuminated the face of a girl. The girl sat at a restaurant table. The candle stood on that table. Her jewelry sparkled, superfluously brilliant. A smile decorated her lips, outwardly bound. The night surrounded her with a faint glow. The world sat forty floors below her. It rustled and hurried and ran. Time also rustled and hurried and ran. The candle burned downwards to the table, to the ground. She waited and she felt. The world felt nothing at all. She felt the scrapings of loneliness in this company of men. She did not smile at them, but outward – beyond them. They acknowledged pretentiously that she destined her smil