What is this desolate place?    
Is he showing me this?      
Why would he take me here?    
Snow?    
Or is it blood?    
The air feels heavy with despair.    
It's suffocating.    
It's so.....    
......hopeless.      
This can't be;    
the world inside his heart, can it?    
Where is he?    

The trees here are hollow,      
their branches like fingers pointing at me.    
Blaming.    
Begging.    

There's a house ahead.    
Falling apart,    
like it's been grieving for decades.      
A single photo swings on a broken wall,    
too blurred to make out.    

Is it him?    
Or is it us?  

I walk deeper in.    
The snow crunches,    
but it doesn’t melt.    
Where is he?

The garden butterflies are all dead.
Wings torn, Head crushed.
Some lie still on the petals,
While other lie limbless on the soil.
So why are the flowers still smiling?
The leaves dancing?
Are they actually numb
Or were the butterflies enemies
Instead of friends?

Why do dead people get more flowers
than alive ones?
Is regret greater than gratitude?

Why do graves bloom
with petals of sorrow,
while the warm hands,
still reaching,
are left cold and empty?

Why do people love children
but neglect old parents?
why do we cherish youth,
soft , unwrinkled
but aver our gaze
from the hands
that built our world?

I ravage myself in hopes,
but purity was all u needed.
Crinkled bedsheets,
White snow turned red and purple,
Is this your kind of pretty?

My love is such a wretched thing,
To keep within and about.
I spoon it to your lips,
And yet you spit it out.

I built a castle from scattered bones,
Laced it with echoes of your name.
Yet every wish turns out to be ash,
And every ember dies the same.