Nobody wins. Fight after fight and war after war, the only emerging constituent is death. Death like glass shooting through your spine on the twenty third floor of a Chicago skyscraper. Death like putrid smoke and vomit filling a bloodied field. Or filling a party on the wrong side of town. Death like the cool leather of the couch for two that sags under a heaving body, because no fight is left to give to a lost war.
death//n.
The permanent end or destruction of something.
The Instantaneous and Perpetual Moment of Death's Inexactitude
death//n.
The greenlights and stop signs of your vision are clouded over by a rolling mist, almost resembling a morning tendril of fog. Each no becomes a laughing maybe, and shot after shot the bullets sink down your throat and a laughing maybe becomes "I want this." And ironically, the moment before it happens, you almost do.
(c.d.)
YOU ARE READING
Craving Love
Poesía→ it's been occurring to me, that you can't burn the devil. ← ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ *Please don't take any of my work. All poems belong to me, unless stated otherwise. :)*
