Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,--
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,--
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

Conscience, consuming.
My stomach has turned inside
and in on itself.

My eyes have rotted
and reduced to such lifeless,
stationary orbs.

Today is the day,
I ***** my weaknesses
to teach myself strength.

I walk tonight.
The sky casts no light.
The lack of shadows hides my solitude.
My dormant heart beats alone.
Awaiting to be heard.
Longing to be held.
By the one so wrongfully taken for granted.
The only one that truly cares,
If it beats at all.
This heart beats for you.
These tears fall for you.
These feet walk for you…

A gleaming light flickers in the distance.
Lightening is strewn across the horizon.
Such power given by gods to move mountains with profound toxicity.
A power given to slay the inexhaustible flame I hold deep within.
I have been stricken down.
By this hand of fate.
What you call an obstacle,
I see a labyrinth.
Twisting and contorting with layers unreachable by the most straining efforts.
To be wandered for eternity,
These walls hold me in captivity.

Adjacent lies the potent moon.
Tearing a lucid hole in the darkness,
Light pours in.
Thrown to my knees by the fiery fervor that drips so elegantly.
Diminutive under these chains of misery,
I look up.
And cry out!
But I am not heard…
I am not seen…
I am forgotten.

And so…
Once again,
The moon has fallen…
Left in darkness.
No shadow for company.
I hunger.
For another day.
Another chance.
To prove myself worthy.
So that some day,
I can again feel your supple skin beneath my fingertips.
Taste your succulent lips.
And embrace you for what you are worth.

Love,
andypandypood'npie

To read and write,
listen and speak.
C.S Lewis understood,
we read to know that
we are not alone.
Define Fiction?
Bukowski set em straight,
Fiction is an improvement on life.
There is no money in poetry,
But then there's no poetry in money,
Either.
Without it though,
Without     them.
Nothing.