Abomination of desolation

The human body can only contain a limited amount of blood, but the soul’s ability to hold onto grief is infinite.

We all grow dark, like we’re getting late. Like time is speeding on,

and we’re sunsets and

dusk and gloaming,

a roaming breeze cool through trees, and shadows falling.

We learn too much about ourselves sometimes,

and become afraid.

We see more than we were meant to and yearn to be brave. Our hands are just tools to bend ourselves into shapes.

The shape of a body broken by fear.

The shape of a mouth in mourning.

The shape of sorrow forming,

and the taste of human tears.

The salt that fills us, dying to escape.

Old machinery wearing away.

There are parts of me I’ve never touched,

like sins after the flood.

I pray for the day the dirt is cleansed,

All I see is dead poems, trampled in the mud.

If there ever is a reckoning, will I regret my wicked ways?

Will I be left to linger in a lonely grave?

I am more filled with grief than blood these days.

I break in waves,

against the shore,

in the solitude of sand and storms.

If there ever is a resurrection I reject it all.

I would crawl into hell myself before I beg to be reborn.

If this moment is all there is, enjoy the mourning.

If this morning is the last, enjoy the moment.

I’m old enough to know that ghosts don’t come

just because you call.

I’ve heard enough prayers to know

we’re all just looking for something more