Early, it's too early they say, you're much too young. Hey, you aren't a stone.
And yet, there where you stand the world passes you by and no tears come,
must be too early, the trees haven't caught flame yet, tho the dryspell cracks my ribs.
Spineless in my dizzy dance, I beg the stars to buzz just once for me.
The haze of my soul spreads over the dying ash of green,
a cloaked grayness will bleed my destiny and overtake the afternoons.
I plan on evacuating the colors of the world to send postcards to the sacred burial-sites.
I know the shun. I see how everything views my imprisoned soul.
Even suffering Orion pitys my meaningless thrumming, there where his ancient flesh rots: suspended half-dead above my equinox.
Under the broken promises of great storms, my bones ache, I go on living just to spite the fates,
and my hands do nothing but weave the air to the air. All the days, these fiery minutes reduced to dust and memory.
Here is where I'll oxidize under such vast Creation.
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