I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

We all have dreams, and we all have the one' we live out. 


Living. It's not even funny. hiding things from myself so as to not realize with concrete proof of my own desires. 


Not telling another for fear of it being realized by myself via outward acknowledgment. 


Not even for discontentment with life. I know happiness is perception. It's too easy to be happy. I'm aware of how easy it is to acknowledge life's joy. 


I am not interested in being happy and continuing to be happy. 


I lie that it benefits me to be happy. 


When I do break and my life is seen through, it's always unhelpful and hindering, so I get better at lying. 


I want to believe in what I am, I can't remember where I made him or what's left in my body for me. which one of us is real. Which one is in control. which one of us is better. I've changed for what I created, whatever I am now. 


I believe in it and it's not a lie anymore. Now there's two of me and I don't know which is which or if I care. 


A sky stacked upon a page of rolling dead sapphire grass and murders of ravens. Grey and utterly dead, still moving forward solely for the promise of doing so. 


Deceiving my eyes with this landscape of death. 


Whispering a sound unheard by my living body. 


A lulling invitation, grasping with bony hands for you to lie down out of sight cut your view of this endless landscape and end. 


A lust to scream anything your mouth can form, to uselessly defy the heartbreakingly familiar snail's pace of moving forward to the same disheartening horizon. 


Chains holding the sky together as if it would fall in. Marble and granite clouds magnificent in all faith, but for the multitude of leering greedy eyes groping the air with silvery tongues. 


Shattered and bleeding. Bones pulled through flesh and strewn amidst the grass and dirt. This pitiful vessel soaking the sky with blood giving rise to a new sun just for a moment before ending in darkness. 


Once upon a time in love with dreams not my own. 


Living dreams manifesting during sleep. dead dreams, forgotten at conception. 


The possibility of dreams, the dreams of all souls seen and hidden. 


Lying down in a grave, for fear of destroying anothers' dream of healthy grass, sky, and invisible chains.


Litost