dying while trying to find an upward turn, cannot focus on the scene before them, their lungs are full of cobalt blue.
they are silently jagged.
they are silently folding in upon themselves.
the scene before them takes place under a night unseen but for the surrounding dull & dark. rotting city walls heave & yaw above, they gulp down the forgotten stars. from broken windows they pull the moon in & to pieces with tarnished silverware. the night sounds of eating in solitude, it sounds of congestion.
the pavement is cold & wet on their cheek.
their eyes are bright.
the scene before them is a violence of wings with a quick blade. the scene is a chaos of blood. cannot tell who should be them. neither one i suppose, neither one.
we do not deserve the knife.
we do not deserve the wound.
close their eyes & focus on the wind that snakes between. it is cold, smells of september, of a quiet & calm death, of leaves that will not burn easy, of moss that spreads in stealth. the wind smells of forgotten dreams, of extinct labyrinthian forests, of careless moments, of worn gravestones. the wind smells of sadness, & they take it all in as though they could take any more.
the wind is of asphodel.
let us sink through the asphalt.
the scene is muffled. a wet black cloth wrapped around angel mouths. the knife is an angel mouth. blood seeps down in, searching for them. why does the blood always search for them? wants to seep up their nose, into eyes, through lips. they are an angel mouth.
a black blood like a quiet cloth.
their lips crack & we mingle.
so deep now beneath that they have forgotten what comes next.
