I wither,
claiming nostalgic naivety,
avert dim eyes which do not see
beyond the confines of an idealistic tragedy—
breakdowns scripted in repose
like aesthetic preconception for a funeral.

Branches snapping, smoldering
as the victims a metaphoric drought,
lovebirds voiding their endearment
to a self-destructive mind
entwined in riddles like a different kind of wonderful;
my enchanted forest falls,
crumbles into fairy dust over gravestones
that belong to no one,
because the names have worn away
and been forgotten.

I wither,
paper dry skin bleeding ink
reduced to powder by the elements
of fear, surprise, servility
misconstrued as weakness of the senses—
there are no loyal here,
only acid imperceptive of whose fingernails it chews
into a blood jagged gorgeous sort of mess.

But you thrive upon the poison pen,
holding on for just a little longer
to drain the bitter dregs of decency
from still flushed corpses,
claiming unoriginality your cleric,
preaching piracy to plagiaristic congregations;
you pick apart the seams of dreams
and nightmares shorn in velvet black,
laced with absinthe seeping
toward our faulty recollections
of prosperity.

I wither,
caught up in the discord of words
broken on the floor where they fell
from the careless tongues of others,
writhing in meaninglessness and stupidity
like stunned children with broken ankles;
you'll sweep them up and put them back together,
dress them up to hide the scars
before you call them your own—
and they'll be grateful for your mercy,
because acerbic meniality trumps erasure.

Genuine is falling down drunk in your wake,
slurring into pretty shapes conceived by toddlers
who will soon be taught the values of
cheap imitation, counterfeit abridgement,
will soon be told that everything is thought of
and their minds are hopelessly outdated
in the shadow of modernity;
you feed them poison preconceptions
like bitter fruit, too good for them.

I wither,
because the life is slipping out of living.