This is the end of something
That might have been beautiful
But never had the chance to live.
A sad truth,
But a truth,
Action is the enemy of thought,
What about when
The mind turns
Inconsistently epileptic playing the game of
The pounding heart,
Soft and delicate like a big, ripe plum?
It mostly fucking quits on you.
The main, in fact only theme is
The pitch-cold hysteria of a
Scarlet Would-Have-Been Heaven
That you frantically see
Dissipating into midnight air,
Only to become
The ghost of the shadow of the seed of Everything
Left to never be in the ash soil of Neverland.