you remind me of them with both ache and happiness
because I don't know anymore
which one is which.
they say your soul is but a convention
we designate to keep ourselves sane,
but I believe you're a higher power's craft
more than I am myself-
one can't compare rooted instinct
to self-proclaimed destruction and lust...
I'm powerless before your pain
and your tongue cannot describe it-
that's why I cry more than I would before
the mourning of a madman...
this curse of mine is set to strike
in blows of black oblivion:
I'm scared and voided by the fact
that I don't know how to react
to an obliterated closure.
your innocence makes me forget
my gods and wisdom
in times of wounded flesh.