A suicidal Buddhist emptied his mind with a shotgun the other day
No working mirrors in his household-they were either broken or out of tune,
he could not live a cliche`
anymore, that day.
A fallen picture of his wife,
glass broken- so horrifyingly accurate in resembling her death
Carnivorous darkness engulfed him in his one room apartment.
few strands of hope shining in through the imperfections in the walls and ceiling.
Philanthropy was such an arduous philosophy.
Thousands of miniature bite sized phobias assimilated into a being greater and more real than himself.
Not so much iridescent thoughts drowning him.
He could not view outside, for his windows and foresight were missing pieces.
Pieces which had gotten wet and inflated and did not fit together anymore.
Yet he did not need either to know only grimness awaited.
He decided it anticlimactic to wait anymore.
It was going to happen, regardless of anymore
shards of broken fucking glass.
Remnants of an exciting flair now turned ugly dark brown.
She washed me out of her hair.
The abyss will not be missed
Openmindness-and hinges-can turn any wall into a door.
hinges cannot do much more,
openmindness cannot be bought in a store.
An apparition at it's apex is still only a phantom
this is not true, but the truth you could not fathom
I forgo that formidable logic is my enemy.
Money does not grow from a tree.
Nothing beautiful grows from money.
A wound from a kiss, slowly becoming infected.
Gazing out the window at the endless whiteness.
For some illogical reason staring at white snow is more enticing then white paper.
She had on a black dress with a white stain...or a completely ruined white dress.
Walking about, her facial expressions indicated the frigid air was bothering her.
She was alone-in both physical and perhaps metaphorical aspect of the word.
Her destination appeared to be toward me, but it would not be impossible for her to be walking backwards.
A mistake common made, speech common slurred.
I suppose it would be fallacious for me to guess her destination to be anything more then blank whiteness
It would be even more illogical to assume that white spot was her slowly fading away into the background.
No variance
No alteration
but still satisfying
I look at the vast whiteness out my window again,
and then back to the picture of the woman in the black dress.
The epitome of my esoteric life
quickly fades
Integrating every possible combination into a placebo like, subliminal, lucid poison in my mind stronger than I could ever be.
-But enough about me.
A man was hit with a pound of lead,
another hit with a pound of feathers.
both were found dead.
They felt sorry for the man who was hit by lead.
The man hit with the feathers was called weak.
-But enough about me already.
The autopsy confirmed,
a mind flourishing in uninteresting opinions and observations.
The Ghosts of Future and past do not haunt scrooge, they haunt the crippled boy.
Whose bones broke with feathers, and walks with a lead cane.
and nobody gives a shit.
