Sometimes we dream of really nice things, 
And then we die. 

Our body betrays us
 In the moments we least expect
 It hides from our hearts
 And says: We are our own.

There are three things that can always be found in mass
I have been all and both and some. 

It's very hard to start once you've stopped.

today
must things always be tinted with a viscid shade of black
where happier things are rendered more mute, 
and hearts so warm are chilled in a time?
this kind of curse is plenty murderous--
a form of death that burns, 
heralding the quiet of the soul, 
the fading of a smile, 
the slow slumber of connection
gone. 
Because this is a mark 
that chooses not to leave; 
increasing, drowning
all of you
deserving.