A shot of music.

A human voice -
a voice of Slavic magic
storms into
the dried out
wastelands
of my parched soul.

Walking alone
with some music
breeze whispering to trees
stars winking ceaselessly
alone with nothing but you
I have always thought
Why is mind so fond
of nights at dawn
of moon behind clouds
of clouds that has fallen
of face behind veil
of things we lose
of feelings untrue
What is so precious
about stones that shine-
only on light.

You don't have to die
to haunt someone.

All you have to do is
walk away,
say goodbye,
mean it.

Your laugh will remain,
spectral and pervasive.

I am a ghost in a mechanism,
a gun with a soul,
a memory that dreamt to be human.

world wrought to ruin
i can feel the creeping dark
dancing between my fingers
the foreign, strange, eerie
uncanny arcane

That smell,
that musty odor caressing the air,
coddling it and cooling my mind.
Growing stronger and stronger with each successive stair,
birthing me into the world.
It doesn't fit,
not in these temperatures,
not in this light.
It's a cube,
in a gray matter hole.
It just doesn't work.
But it's there,
permeating the stinging air.
Cold and deadly,
it lingers without approval or purpose.
Yet,
It's inviting,
sentimental.
As the leaves shake off their bonds,
as they find rest on the dead ground,
it grows.
It's presence princely among the colors,
adorned in darkness and a shimmering beauty.
It's a rot,
a stench of death.
The silent death of a million bright jewels,
resplendent with the auras of natural flame
and lost underfoot with a magnanimous crunch.