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ruins
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.
