Cry

I live for the reparation of a generation
self-consumed in their own excessive waste,
suffocating on the insufficiencies of Passion’s taste;
bloodshot eyes and spirits trying to soar,
but shot down from heaven like a shooting star.


Cry, when you know it’s killin’ you;
cry, when the taste is more bitter than the memory;
cry for all the lost souls searching, who
cry only when they know they’ll cry indefinitely.


The slow static stare gazing at the puzzle maze
through a misty haze and picking out the pieces
like falling rain from the sky in a toxic waste;
in dives the soul through a series of kaleidoscopes
filtered from feeling shards shatter explosively
in a cosmic collision of shooting stars destined for fission,
and out eats the poison, consuming the flesh
that crafts the celestial rhythm in a tight-laced mesh.