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,

What was it like? What was the thing that took you from me. What could possibly grow inside of you so much so as to rip you to pieces without me knowing. 


Every word I am trying. Trying to talk to you. Trying to shove as much of me as I can onto paper and then back at you 


I wanted to put the most of me that I can onto this paper. 


As much of me written on paper, talking in the way I talk. 


You reach up clawing my shirt, scratching blood into and past my clothing, straight into my soul it bleeds, so cold are your eyes and the cracks inside them, I cannot see the bottom, when I looked closer it was just the endless bottom of the fractures. 


Last you said to me was to keep on. Now you've thrown your body out of the sky and shattered your soul against the ground. I was not even around to witness. 


Funerals in the end