Nothing Is Going To Last

Days wither into a fine waxy pulp. Inevitable decay of an ungrateful heart. The soft beating pulse is mellow and washed out, whispering in a permissive voice about veiled clement weathers. The moon is casting its nebulous shadows, and the beacons of those blazing nights are oblivious in time, flashing bulbs of levitating sadness. Married to those flickers and turns, rotating diagonals of autumn musk, stale orange lingering between sheets of blue rock. Ash melts on bitter lips, the cusp of a priceless smile curving to meet the edge of pale blueness. Mumbling nothing. I wallow in the fading glow of the day and feel like a basket case, with no real friends or real memories.