when the tide turns

when the tide turns, i will find you.
among flowers blooming on industrial wreckage,
on moss swallowing concrete,
i will walk to you.

the open sky will illuminate your beauty,
through spring buds on fresh vines
your presence will be celebrated
by the return of migratory songbirds.

when the tide turns
i will no longer play dead.
my roots will erupt through broken foundations
cradling your soft spirit, allowing all your splendor to grow.



--

weary

I love you.
In capacities experienced only by the dwellers of the deep, ocean creatures unfound and unimagined.
Yet, imagined to be unfound, found to be unimagined.

I see you.
With a weary heart I've marched towards your castle in the sea.
With every step i think your touch will set me free.
But with every step, i perish, taken by the sea.
The waves have worn the sands of heart, granules lost to me.

I fear when i arrive to you, I'll be gone.

the rain runs

As the day drifts on, the rain runs. Washing out tracks I laid for you to follow.

The further I travel, the less i can see you, perceive you, but your silhouette wraps it's roots around my spirit.

Whispers warn me that you'll never find me, for the rain runs, washing out tracks I laid for you to follow.

dangle

A tattered, worn, but spitefully effective noose caresses the flesh of my weathered neck as i dangle in empty defeat. The hangman stands emotionless at my ankles, motionless except for a brief moment when he runs his finger gently across my skin. His flesh burns with coldness, the texture i can relate only to some form of crude metal.

The gallows are an open wasteland, a vast industrial landfill, a graveyard for one use products, containers, outdated machinery, and the skeletons of memories.

As i hang, my last breath seems to last forever. my blurred vision slowly returns to me, providing a closer look at my situation. Rusty tentacles protrude from my flesh in multiple locations, tubes of passage feeding a master. One such cyborg limb extends from my left ribcage, cracked and dry blood mark its entrance into my body. I follow it with my eye, through a maze of wreckage and death, it makes it way to an oil rig. still powered by the energy i provide it, it drills into an exhausted and dried up earth. Another erupts from my right thigh, and connects to a series of power lines that go for as long as the eye can see. Anything in it's path removed, leveled, and destroyed. The vague shape of a distant power plant sits on the horizon. I can't tell if it's actually visible, or a cruel hallucination stemming from the guilt of my spirit. Another tentacle connects to a bank. Another to a grotesque monster with circuit boards for teeth, giant clocks ticking backwards for eyes, and gears and motors pumping it's life force through its purely machine self. Created by the politicians of the old world, this machine of war and brainwash still shapes the reality of our post apocalyptic present.

My vision again blurs, too tired to look any further at what I have been forced to live connected to, and what my broken dead body will continue to feed until every drop of resource has been extracted from my very soul. harvested by doom's minions.

The hangman looks up, his eyes are empty, his carcass is empty, the next evolution of human... empty.