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We cannot speak. Our words are forever bound by the whispering songs of our broken hearted angels. Their wings have been torn, long before they started to cry into the foam of the ocean. The sky has been morphed into a sick, bloody red, the deep blue -green of the ocean, a violent violet. The ocean cried, her moans echoing into the depths of the three worlds, heaven, hell and the earth. The earth ran her fingers though her hair, the trees being pushed and pulled at her will. The wind blew. He blew and blew. Never ceaseing. The angels continued to weep, tears being shed dry so long ago. The earth, finally tired, joined in. Tears streaming from her face onto the world, silent at first but slowly changing into the loud bellows that we know as thunder and lighting. The angels stopped, and fell into a heap of feathers and blood. The world soon followed suit, and stopped and she cried out in anguish and pain. Her last friend dead. Her world destroyed. Our world is destroyed. Our end. So near our fingers are graced with it's presence, just out side our reach. A cold silver shimmers just above the surface of an unknown black lake. But we see a cloud of deep violent-black blocking our view from seeing the rest. We gasp, our breaths stuck in our throats. Choking on our words, we stutter into silence. Suffocating. Our earth is angry. That's why we died. That's why we suffered. We can do no right. We can always do wrong. We are gone. Dead forever rotting in the eternal stank of molten flesh and bones. Thrown into servitude, no ill will can be harbored now. As we can feel nothing. We float, in an endless abyss of black and blood. How long will it take? How dead will we be in the end? Can we muster the strength to live on, if we are so lucky to have that choice? No one knows as her raspy whispers frighten us, calling our names one by one. We walk, sulking to our ends down a long hallway. Pipes letting lose steam call to us, Forever. The walk never ending. Just like our lies. The world never ended. Just us.


yay. poems.