the old ages we reach
faded cloth on the floor
left to strand on the dessicated wretch
of what once lay beforemy words of fabled tongues
new renaissances of the league
the captured lungs of another love
left only to root in ragewhat began as a simple perplexion
now reigned my days till dying light
until my bones no longer moved
and my eyes no longer readwhat could have been the end
but bled out far too long
is now my wretched beginning
a means to a fleeting dreami work these psalms into ideas
that could be barely read
by the naked eye alone
i am a ghost of my former resolutebut now i am my maker
a creator of tales
my schizophrenic prayers
yelping into the daggered airoh how we wait
in the passing graves of our mothers
to escape what we made ourselves
and made ourselves out to bewhat began as passion
soon became obsession
raw, raging sycophants
forever a dying depression
CITEȘTI
if not human
Poeziethe anthology of emotion, the passing of life, the epilogue of pure, unfiltered regret this is "if not human" poems, prose and stories from the dark