in and out

over and again
this song in
my head

the same melody,
different tune

the words have all
changed to the
groan in my
chest

relief is the very
last orgasm
when the sky
turns black
and the moon
is dark
and the stars
need not show
their timeless
light

when the tears
have gone
all that remains
is the sting
of memory,
the past pushing
back through
you into the
bowels from
whence it came

that weakness
is a type of
purgatory,
a land of ill
escape,
a plain of
weeping grass
and soiled intent

the song that
is there is a song
of misfortune,
a song of timeless
love and failure

no true sorrow
but your own

nothing outside
of yourself

and the pain is
vacant and
gross,
a
dirty
thing for
which you
hold tightly to
yourself

this is not real
beyond the scope
of emotion and
drive which you
show it

this is not real
beyond the cries
you hear at night

this is not real
past the shores
and the drowning
gifts, waterlogged
with grief

this is not real
none of this is real
I am not real
you are not real
we never existed
outside of this
or because of this
or beyond this

illusions aren't as
pretty
when you lick
away the
frosting

hope is the next
thing that keeps
the weeping at bay

hope is the sound
of the same melody,
different tune

hope is waking
in the morning
and finding you
were never here

hope is a pounding
chest when the
excitement is
too much to
handle.

hope is the
smell of
daisies
when
tomorrow
never
came