For where must I bury what does not die? The living, beating insipid creature — years and years pass, yet it stays. Where do I bury, all that has befallen, like the lashes that once carried wishes, the viles of powdered melancholy, the remnants that throttle me as I fall asunder. Sometimes this tomorrow feels like a yesterday that has gone by — into what should possibly be my past I devour in. As pass by mounds of sanguine skies and daylights and like those lights I stay volatile. You are but everywhere, every memory, every remnant, every thought of every day that passes me every time, this grief seems to settle upon within. For I am a blend of all the seasons that keep turning against my soul, prevailing numbness inside. Fading, falling, wanting to scratch of the feeling of not belonging, the way people drift apart, long and long; never to have. Be it of death or long lost wars, and I cascade with. But what is gone ties me down changes that I were to make, the never diminishing aftertaste, and its heart-wrenching start.
-all that goes and stays