[ 2:25 AM ]
what if our souls had colors
and it had to be a certain color to get into heaven
so that god can paint the sunsets with them?
(He has no use for black.)
i guess the bleeding sunsets are forged from those who died
fighting, sinning for the greater good...
the pinks for those who died peacefully, probably in love
and innocent somehow...
and the oranges for those who, like me, are dead from doing an overwhelming mixture of both.
sorrowful are those peeking with scorched retinas at the colors of
their loved ones above
all they see is god smearing all that they could've possibly had left of them
and they claw the remainders of their eyes, their hearts heavy with the thought...
should i offer woe to the selfish, blind bastard who is so wrapped up in loss
that they can't see that it's more of a gain than loss?
oh, but i forgot... flames distort vision quite well.
YOU ARE READING
past oblivion.
Poetry"what can i really say?" used to be my words, when i didn't know as much. when i got older, i responded to myself. "everything." now, i realize that i can use my breath to speak on everything in existence, from dust on jupiter to the depths of hell...
