bending,
twisting,
breaking,
prying,
all to fill a void that is my own emptiness as it traps itself, was never founded, but exists inevitably; as if my existence was meant to disappear and collapse in on itself but destroys in proximity by its own nature. For I do not know what to do but that. To love, to hold, it is the furthest galaxy-- furthest alien from I. As if love is the light that I confiscate and dismantle atom by atom, piece by piece as I am desolate in my own solitude which I name peace when it seems anything but so. For I am swirling in my own circle, circling around the purpose of: why? And, still, nobody knows why I am here. I do not know why I am here, who I am meant to be. I am lonely but I trap everything, am surrounded by everything, a loneliness that was fated and meant just for me; as if it is the only thing that ever was.
YOU ARE READING
the petals on a rose
Poetryand then there will still be vultures after that'll continue to take what they can get from the residue of your pure soul [a collection of poetry & prose]
