Oh, how i think living is such a terrible tragedy
Falling and faltering while you cradle me in your arms
My skin burns where we touch and connect
I can feel this agony
I can feel myself writhe in pain when you hold me
Nothing but comforting touches and platonic affection
Yet i still burn with discomfort

What is this great calamity
What is this god if not my captor
My religion must be you they tell me
But i am still falling and faltering
And burning in this torment
If i push you out of my mind
And ignore the words of my peers
Will I find peace?
Or will I still live in this never ending desolation

In somber atrophy
Stale breath beckons truth

The heart dwindled
I choke on your words

The skylight tints the afternoon grey
And some dull, dusty oranges
Perhaps there's fire, somewhere far away
Somewhere far beyond the creaking shelves
The time-varnished brown, rusty door hinges

The air is thicker than the oldest tomes
Sticky as the darkest aisle
Where long-dead spiders once made their homes
Minds caught in paper, minds caught in webs
I think, if I think, I'll sleep for awhile

we write now past anger,
but nearer to the closing

…

the period of our lives, here,
at the end of this poem

and with every day,
every word, every look,

i·so·la·tion
is now redefined as:

des·o·la·tion

(a state of complete emptiness or destruction barrenness bleakness starkness misery melancholy gloom bareness dismalness grimness aridity sterility wildness anguished misery loneliness despondency despair distress)

now, it too is redefined as:

we can no longer look at our children faces...

Without past, without intervention,
it is spectating.
Memories are few,
present is new,
none can see, and none can hear,
the role of a spectator.
To see yet not do,
to hear yet not say,
spectator are lonely beings.

Sleeps...
A single step feels like thousand leaps.
The people are near,
yet sounds are not here.
Fear is near,
but people are nowhere here.
Alone, the fear is severe,
with no one here,
how can I cheer?