The world runs from its own quakes,
To where it shall drown itself
In the breaths that you take, in the attempt
To brush off another problem,
Across fields as voids,
Across lakes as the murky sides of your mind.
For you are the woman who speaks
With more kindness,
With more gratitude than even Nature does.
A fog engulfs your eyes,
And the earth beckons.
All death sees, the whole of you
With your face to the breezes,
With your eyes to the skies,
And your lips running a wind, a sigh to the open
Fields that are like voids,
Lakes that are the murky areas of your very mind,
As beauty can only ever subside its wildness,
Upon when we all see
Your cries, in all sorry whiles.
All of life notices nothing, among your darkest fevers,
In warming nights, beneath a cold moon.
You will breathe, even when you pass,
Even when you die,
Even when you weep in the clearest blue,
No life will notice.
Your depression is a sunken tapestry
That is full of the many tales,
You have weaved, with broken fingers,
And wrists hooped with gold and silver.
Who gave you those meager treasures?
Was it the Devil?
I subside myself, to your unholy cries,
Your emptying happiness,
For you’ll remain as cruel, as the negligence we all know
You reek of.
What a beautiful moment
When death can notice something not visible.