we held hands on the last night on earth. Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in fields and under trees, screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves. It was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river. So we walked through the wast where the shattered seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease. In our cancer of passion you said, " Death is a midnight runner".
The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide. We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of stars that wore like a unique wedding dress. The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop. The few insects skittered away in hopes of as better pastime.
I kissed you at the apex of the maelstrom and asked if you would accompany me in a quick fall, but you made me realize the my ticket wasn't for two.
I rode alone.
You said, 'The cinders are falling like snow'. There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elergies of savagery and eloquence. of blue and of grey. Strange, we ran down the streets and carved our names in the flesh of the city. The sun was stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizen and the darkness is mystery of curves and lines. Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowely outward, and somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched into the earth like a message.
