on the day where your voice is hoarse and your time is nigh, little by little, the tides run high and the building stays standing still. quiet. waiting. crying.
and the sky. the sky can eat you whole.
the sky with crackling lullabies, broken carols and twisted ballads. they sing you to sleep, they sing you to the ground, they sing you to the sky with its rotten melodies. from the horizons intertwining with the soul, you stand at the edge of the universe—haggard, jaded, faded.
death, with arias and hymns, poems and disease, brings the skies to the ground, and stitches one against me. the torture of all tortures. i asked for this. i did. i asked for this. i asked to face the endless route of sad baby blue skies.
the sky on my back, and the heavens above my spine, your coffin lies in the heart of the eyes of those you despise. once you realize the imminence of your demise, may your time rest in the paradigm of a silver bullet, right between your pretty, guilty eyes.
