If you think you thought you knew, you were wrong... were you always wrong?

Weeping black floats…flows…

How faded the blue of eternity is, like death speaks…
The noise of what’s not there…
How many words you silenced to die, you let them go, you let them burn out, shrivel away…

…dead paint shrivels off and I think of you…

I think of him, far too much, am I in love with him or with you…
Those are words lips never touch for the foul filth of ashes mars your perfect tongue, so soft…

Never speak to me of these things…

The perfect arch of flying lies, how I love them, how I love you…

It hurts when silence is louder than truth, it is true too often over…

But you don’t know what of what I speak and I am grateful
Perfect is only my silence when you cry…

Cruelty hides in every remote corner of your smile,
Linger between your lashes, speak…

Speak to me only of cruelty, it is what I bear to hear…

The frozen arm of bronze crawls to protect and hide: I fail…
Is there nothing to hide from…

…speak to me not of these things…

it reels, it all reels, like the wheel of the universe and the dying arch of falling stars, weeping comets in black…

…speak not of what you don’t know… speak naught…

touch the lips of the dying and taste the sweet smell of decay: you don’t know the words…
…you don’t know my words…

I am enamoured of the blue fumes, so similar to the smooth scars in the skies, they twist and swirl, you can never go so deep, you will never fill me like they do…

The sweet poison of Baudelaire’s words, the sound of marred, scarred perfection: you cannot know…

You must not know…

What can I tell you…? Go…

i…

…go to the silence and beg with my eyes: you should find me there, it is not hard…
reeling slowly to death as the day I was born: marked to die from the poison of words…

…silence…