valley of stalagmites

in some outlandish dream

a portion of their souls
mushrooms up into the sky
billowing up with the blast from the bombs

the resounding boom
a multitude of goodbyes
thundering across a once
vibrant city scape

an otherworldly exodus

and you could imagine
the climate changing thereafter
killing off most living things

the world turning
some sickly tinge like an infection
the color of rust and water stain
mucus mixed with congealed blood

fall colors abounding

dead tones materialized
autumn glazed over every surface

it speaks: the end of flowers

the absence of god,
or maybe the ever presence of god;

but it doesn't matter.

because the world
perpetuates.

because the world

simply

is.

a vera

death, see
how she
did stroll
of the blue
eyes
like little pieces
of the sky
her crystallized
iris'

i
was mesmerized

and you
were so goddamn
beautiful

self

i go into
a headless self

and it is how i might imagine madness
to be

and i gaze into the vacant
unfurnished head

speaking volumes in tongue

it does not have to make sense

the lop-sided moon
will be perfect for only a moment

already losing it's symmetry

i'm turning into things turning
into things

spy a rosary forever long
like pig entrails wrapped around my wrist

the proverbial self in the air
baring it's teeth

i'll never have to watch things die
if i kill them first...