Echoes

Suns sing in the distance;
The horizon is hiding secrets from my tired eyes as
She vomits the rainbows, the source of all I despise:
the paradox of wind against sound;
the 3 dimensional cube we see life as
all the while knowing our planet is round
like the cycle of dignity lost and patience found;
the way that hallucination glares at me
and then teases me like I'm all there is she sees;
the way memories and the tragic
create oblique magic
you've only heard
from the way a child does from her thoughts to her word;
how I watch the good walk away
and never come back
doomed to fall in between the cracks.
All this, but mostly that I enjoy it. I love it.
I'm caught inside the ghost mentality;
the current of emotion exists as the default memory:
unknown casualties,
emerging sexuality
Liquified, russet color, bold aromas that help find serenity.
People should forget that god frowns so passionately upon pride
and remember that
his as much as mine
the fundamental issue with our existence is the scarcity of time.
As time fades away,
the mute simply forget what they have to say.
A single howl
sets our song filled souls alight.
The songs we fear are the songs he hears.
They burn into his night.
The pieces of the puzzles arrange
around the central image of what we make of the days
or what the days make of us
or the message between the connections we never see
but the shadow's voice resonates into me.
All I am is the echo
of what it means to start letting go.