here is what I hold in my hand.

tales to be told. written  unknown, how there

is no origin. there is nothing. to be made

of these old bones, creaking. just brings

us closer to the end, the way stories begin.


and voices, which can no longer be heard. 

they stare at images conceived by memory. humanity,

it is the way we breathe. through this science

flowing through veins in blood. quickens 

heartbeat, adrenaline rush.


and mouths fill with the blood. no words, never was.

way we subside in our ruins. filth and decay

linger just as dust, not ash. something foreign

and the sounds echo dully as if escape could

drown the whole reasoning beyond existence.

View amaranthine's Full Portfolio