Impact. . .

Glass, shattered.
Pain, searing all over.
A moment to gather your thoughts.
You touch the place that most hurts.
Red liquid all over your hands.

You try to get out of the car.
Powerless, as the lock holds strong.
What's that? Something's smelling.
Oh God, no it can't be.

You start to panic.
Trying with all you have;
To open the door.
But it just won't respond.

Tears start to trickle down.
Out of ideas, no plan.
One last effort.
Maybe you can get the door
To finally answer.

But deep down, you know
That the battle is lost.
You say your last prayers,
As you wait for a spark. . .

Even if it only glitters in the sky approaching the city,
as your vision blurs and smog suffocates your lungs.
We all return to gaze into the faded stained crossing,
to remember when two fading breaths drifted apart,
eyes glistening in the hourglass of two twisted hearts.

I pretend these eyes see brief clarity beneath,
this path of split ends of unkempt dreads.
Not much to send but I'm tempted to lend,
a broken sentence with no pretense.

Kept fighting rewriting reread recollections,
staring at dead stars lighting my reflection.
Seeing what is and what could be there.
What is and what could be tangibly unaware.
Like what was and what wasn't we are both here and there.
Forgetten remains conciously aware.

So now I sit smoking a ciggarette,
Fighting to write something of sense.
Staring into pixels of kaleidescope pills.
A constant reminder of concocting thrills.
Beginning to burn out and all I wrote:
What fades away turned to smoke.

Today I realized I’m responsible
for the destructive crash
that brought me to where I am.
There were quite a few red lights,
but I ignored them completely.
After all, it’s the green lights
that always look so beautiful
when you are out at night.

Dark clouds in the sunset glow
there's an invisible death below

Amidst apartment blocks, I stroll
around and around a new black hole
of concentrated matter

A broken-winged cargo plane smashed
friends of friends of friends of mine

It is quiet after the blow
I want to hear what I don't want to know
and then kiss away the danger
be it with a stranger

Caress me, caress me, make me glory
for a night, let me forget this story

oh how do you see me
the filcke thing i call me

do you see me as i dance?
do you see me as i fly?

can you watch me as i crash
can you watch me as i fall?

will you hear me if i call
will you hear me as i cry

does it hurt to have me around
does it bother you to have me gone

what does my love feel
what does your scorn taste like

oh how do you see me?
but how can I tell......you're as fickle as me?

But under the silence
   of what we say to each other,
       is the much more articulate silence
           of what we don’t say to each other,

a storm of things unspoken,
  coiled,
     reserved,
       appointed,
        ticking away
  like a clock attached to a time-bomb:
    crash,
       fire,
         demolition wound up in the quietly,
            almost tenderly,
              small,
                 familiar things
                    unspoken.