The EndThe instrument invokes irony.No more questions, let the quarrels quit.Understand my undertaking, my utmost hate.Inspiration, imagination, all identical.Together tattered and torn...trashed and terminated.
Thoughts of LateSweat seeps like sleep through the pores.Blood is trapped inside the core.Shredded hopes hover the floor.Holds her head between her knees,Her tears paint the wall as she pleas.She knows not yet who she needs to be.Unfitting garments clutter her room.She needs to buy new surely soon,Before her central self fully blooms. Alone as ever in her walk,She seeks the road to find a dockWhere lost land behind is unable to mock.Tears pave her personal ocean escape.Her own hands handle the sail's drape.9 months time: thoughts of late.
Eight is the Magic NumberBottomless pits of burgundyAlign the walls of my own eyes. The blood drips down to the pavementAnd my screams push the walls to cry. The iris looks up to its fate.The nerves recoil to escape.The body gives up and falls fast.Everything else lost in the past. The eight was the magic number.Eight hits to the head and each rib.Now all is left is to wonder.Is someone there to catch each drip?