Burnt words
The world is closing in on me,
A hope or two, they form a spree.
Cut into every piece of myself,
Poems on every single shelf.
And the words under my skin burn all too well,
For that is what love does to a man.
It leaves him scarred of beauty,
It leaves him halved, devoid of duty.
And when the spark lights all that's spoken,
All the curses left unspoken,
All the norms that were once broken,
All the promises, forever unbroken,
All the marks counted as open,
All of them serve as a token,
For a flame that casts the blemish
For the bond from soul to perish.
A weld not only made for two,
But drawn by the man once new.
Written all in mighty time's stead,
It crushes time itself instead.
A boy now, with shelves so empty
He draws his breath, ashes, plenty.
Burnt. Turnt. It's all as if it weren't.
It's all as if he wasn't. Really, it's reccurent.
