This is dedicated to G.R.R. Martin and his obsession with exterminating characters with, I assume, a smirk upon his face and a spinster's elongated cigarette holder sticking up from his taut lips. Ha-yuck, yuck, yuck, he chuckles with a jutting jaw. I will beat you senseless with plush toys if you've done this for sheer shock value, Mister Man.

I saw a face when I closed my eyes.
A crooked face with wrinkles blooming from the corners of her features,
like miniature florets of folded skin; a garden abound upon her face.
When she spoke, motes of dust formed pillows surrounding her lips,
searching, as if hungry, for a confined space in which to wallow.
Outward, slowly ascending, her words tangled together obstructing my view,
like a swam of bees en masse, kicking up a raucous noise that soon distracts me.
What was I searching for?

I want to put this vapid world to a torch and warm my hands by its flames.
Sometimes, I wonder what keeps me so sane.
My thoughts straddle the line of insanity, dancing on either side in a cruel jape, but what keeps me sane? I have no idea.. My thoughts turn more and more violent as each smile flashes across vacant faces, meaningless. I am mortal. Yes, that's it and I'm going to change that.

I reckon I should tuck myself into bed and just excuse this as a minor fit of injustice.

Leaves broken in two as if split by an invisible wire upon their descent; into their new arrival to become one with the earth. Some say that it's every leaf's journey to make, but what do we know of the trifles of the shedding of seasons or the toll it takes on one's identity? To be broken for months and thus renewed. To be stripped and vulnerable. To be mocked until one dons that striped umbrella again, that decorative coat, or sequined headband. I admire your leaves but I treasure your limbs. The only constant and sacred thing about you, my dear.

Shame-faced and rosy cheeks.
You're a pretty, little liar.
Hung up on slender wires.
Drunk on others misery.

The days go by in waves of stimulation; in a clockwork mechanism that ticks the moments by-that tocks the days away, while I stand idly in the corner. I'm watching with dissent and profound detachment as the ones I've grown up with live their lives according to a biological plan; in a culture of blind acceptance and disillusionment.

Make your babies! Sing your songs! It's all so pointless in the end no matter which way you preach it.

Tell your tales! Boast of your superiority! It's all a rumble of fabricated lies.

Life is so vapid, in essence. I'm ready to go, to cease in existence and to float off into the void, but I stay because I find too much pleasure pulling thread from its seams, with malicious intent to throw something certain askew, with a pluck or a pinch of my fingers. Laughing all the while.

It is late. And dawn will momentarily break, but I want to shout--wait! For just one day. Let the darkness lull ever constant with the living world. Oh, what chaos would then ensue? How many hearts would stop from fright? How many screams would pierce the night? How many bodies would run and fall out of sight? I ask you Sun, please remain in your slumber, if that is what you're doing, for one day, and grace me the chance to watch the world crumble, while I kneel on bruised knees and broken glass.

"I'll see you when it's over."
"Come back to me."
After the war he took her by the waist and pulled her in for a deep kiss. His sweet Annie. Her back arched as he pushed himself into her.
Rain fell from the sky in torrents of fat drops that molested every surface around Tom. The dream slowly dissolving with what little hope was still left. Her words still ringing in his ears, "come back to me." Tom lifted his heavy eyes from the growing puddles of mud surrounding him to scan the remaining soldiers huddled in the trench. Little streams-like veins- spill over the lip and into their sanctuary, washing away any sense of comfort.