running into the sun
as the flames
lick at the
lips of time
and part the mouth
so subtle,
the fangs of
pain
become but a myth
moving deep
into the light
of an unforgiving
god
high on its
own
reflection.
we live to breath
and die
in the throws
of living too long,
moaning screams
in deadly dreams
and hopeless traps
set by our own hands
continuing
martyrs of the cause
without pause,
our debt to remaining
defaming our trials
by the burden of guilt.
the end stumbles upon us
so slowly
that it quickens the pulse
as the blade dips further
and falls
as a razor arched
across the neck
of our own doing.
the shame of breathing,
our only sin
in the eyes
of sightless gods
bent on ambiguity.
and in this,
we are so alone
that the emptiness
weighs down
the stones upon our chests
quarried
from the empty
dreams from which
we will never
awaken.
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