Dust in denim jeans
food for worms.
We live, so that we may die.
The hollow within wanting more,
but nothing left to give.
Give my heart, my blood.
Give breath, my touch.
Give that single best day
to truly live,
and the dust will fade,
and I will become nothing.
Spoken is of love,
as if by comprehension of the word alone
we liberate our lives from death.
That somehow, within the company
of another person
life has more meaning.
The facade keeps dancing,
keeping pace with the beat
that pounds within our chests.
Words fester upon our lips-
the iron nail suffocating us in our coffins-
and we become puppets
for the afternoon play.
