For Saint, continued

Black hole pissing down reason into his own socket-eyes.  The meaning cannot be demarcated - his black sharpie needs to darken colour in his sky.  Take the naught and go forward- If every day is a murk landslide, then fall through, come out dirty + live a new day, starting Now.  You are a monster, yes? And we are all the saints? Normals, all on a glide? Your ever thickening self hatred rears guilt like rainwater.  Yours, the only demon bound to itself, lying black and curled up, just around each final corner, in the fetal position,
-incapacitated.  He wants you to light him on fire and send him up to the heavens' celestial stems, but you are afraid you won't be but hollowed out, grey ash; without a stink, or any sense of living.  I don't mind that you never loved me like you did her (her strength held back a faceless wall cemented for life, mine a tidal wave behind, causing the bricks of the wall to sail past, sometimes hitting you in the face).  Still, stop trying to find yourself in the heartless.  I'm sorry to say, even if everything comes wrong in you, you are not one of those.  In the darkness of a mountain always in shade, your story abides.  You will always find my hand at your side, formulating landscapes in equations about you, since you cannot see the curtain, rise.

~ M. Lucia