A mirrored reflection; cracked into segments of broken glass
I'll only cut my wrists with a hopeless past
Hoping that these traintracks will lead to new beginnings
Not a tattered wrist, grippin’ my stainless steel decisions
in a shattered fist; elegant fingers found in delicate bones
Perception is naked to but veiled to whatever isn’t shown,
alone I inhale the stale scents of the habor’s bay
Close to reality as your ghost flows farther away
I’ll stay, porched like the city street pigeons upon my dominion
Twenty-five stories, with one life, above the sanctuary called “opinions”
All these people, stressed and perhaps nerve-wracked
looking into a parted sky with price-tagged cherubs & seraphs
funnelling out of condemned buildings where over ten million
Find the purpose of life in high pursuits of alcohol percents & women
Imagine. . .what if a phantom just swept their foundation-
What if the time’s marble beauty was just cracked concrete
now ancient?
Vacant parks appeal to the homeless who only own less
because they hold their beliefs over the reliefs of other grown men
Understand that David’s herds of sheep have been replaced
or butchered for the sake that we sleep on the comfort of deaths taken place
Laugh today, cry tomorrow - prolonge the apocalypse
we either live, and let die ‘cause I don’t know what the other option is
We’ll only judge the truth on the virtues we see first
so I’ll test the people’s faith by stepping off my high standards
feet first
I figured I'd leave RB in classic style, dropping a final poem. Enjoy.
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