Melt

the voice from the clock says, "You're not gonna get tired"

the voice from the clock says, “You’re not gonna get tired”

The breath of your eyes runs along the slope of my nose,

And the hopes of my thoughts drown under the stance you composed.

On the tip of a tongue, you created ice of my mind.

You dangled trust amongst unstable and whispered wants of mine. 

Created of redemption,

And filled up with despair,

I watch as correction passes up all deemed perfectly fair.

Hearts turn to rubble,

As past turns to forget,

I start to stumble,

As winter begins to tempt,

I watch as my feet step and step into tangle,

I watch as you leave my head out to dangle.

The present, the past, the face of attempt,

The want, the angst, searching for content,

Dripping from the lashes of a consumable thing,

Doting amongst the traces, as if I am a being,

Reaching for an answer to embark my precious whim, 

Tracing the pasture, for a stare that engulfs him,

Lingering turns to fulfilling,

And trotting turns to sane,

I pour moments out of my memory,

As I crumble in the rain,

Zero marks my feet, as I reach for your hand,

Twice towards the grip, as a shepherd judges his lamb,

I melt onto the ground, 

A place meant for dead,

I trip onto the memory, a place your pupils left my head.

I followed you to the brink of a man made disaster,

I followed with close gaze, as you lope away faster,

Ignorant to the neurons surrounding my strain,

Unaware to the feelings, as chess is played with pieces of my brain,

And the circles around your windows keep darting out of mine,

And the clouds spoke of destiny to a little girl, who was fine,

I was trying to climb out of the emptiness of desire,

I was trying to surface from the corruption of a liar,

Plotting my letters with the knowledge of time,

Placing my nails in between each notch of said spine, 

Spilling shared secrets and telling of a crime,

Ripping off my face, as I left myself behind,

Everyday is a day focused on tomorrow. 

Volunteering towards a cause who fits the prospect of sorrow,

And I don’t want to speak to the mirrors anymore, 

And I don’t want to be fed lessons I’ve already heard, 

And I still just want to sense the thoughts presented so fast,

And I still want to look at you and feel the hope of all to last,

I still want to run around the imagination of above,

I still hold the snake that drips the venomous blood,

Standing on the box containing words put to bed,

Pulling all the puppets attached to the strings in my head,

Strolling through the seconds, where a simple glimpse stopped time,

Walking through the minutes where it was only you and I,

Guided towards a season,

My experience could not fit,

Tentative towards the night,

Time in a state of omit,

Developed in a span, slicing with light, 

Moulding in reverence with choice in my sight,

Hearing the voice from the inside of my ear,

Sifting my fingers through the attempts of a whole year,

I still care for the canoe that forms from your toes, 

You still control my pulse, with the absorption of my foes,

I’ve memorized your palm as it told me goodbye,

I travel around my dream with the swiftness of a spy. 

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