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.
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
Because this is a mark
that chooses not to leave;
all of you