I could never understand the fire that scorched through his veins, and even his very cells.
I could never comprehend
the fire that caressed his cheeks as well as the dark abyss' his eyes became when he was inspired to
bloom
into a such beautiful but meaningless flower - full of light, brimming with so much unbridled potential -
bearing fruit that could,
that would, certainly,
corrode all.
I couldn't even begin to imagine
the fire that yanked and dragged its beaten
cadavers over his mind; the dark purple
blacking out his eyes, and with it
the light of the sun -
so far away, yet so warm -
that was forcibly altering his perception
so much that the heavens howled, bleeding, crying out, in his wake.
I could never quite perceive
him.
YOU ARE READING
Brained
Poetry"Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life." ~ Pablo Picasso - (Or, some of my poetry, divided into chapters.)
