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Vulcan black it beetles its head through to nowhere where the sun will shine. Aged by the withering scent of
storm and caged in its husk of fancy, it explodes its own myth of irreverence and shame. Like attracting like, the arena of
his mind empties of itself. Blatantly frank of his own emotions, it still hurts as it journeys onward.
Where is this existence
of self amongst the ruins of reality, pain and turmoil?
He sees his mirror as no others do, but blackened, black, blackening,
blackest, somewhere it hides, furtive to minds. Somewhere it glances and smiles back at his tears.
Bough broken and torn,
warm of flesh but empty of lifeblood and shot by bullet. Ripped apart mind of existing thought and desires.
Vacant lot
of hope and pain, mindless debauchery of feelings, had and having. Silenced laughter of praise and fecundity strip naked his
pursuit and claim to anything called life.
Is he there anymore?
Was he anything?
Within, smiles that child but broken
up by a tearbath of growth and age.
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