Puff it once.
Let the smoke dance on the skin until you sucks it back like vacuum. And your eyes overflow with tears like a breaking dam. Pain is a painting of haunted memories you treasure. But if you blood turns black, you’ll risk playing Russian roulette with demons.
Living in a society with borders is like dancing at the top on an active volcano, all the while, expecting it not to erupt. Life is dangerous, just listen to the broken whispers at the end of every delayed heartbeat. You’ll never know if you’re tiptoeing on borrowed time.
After many sacrilegious prayers and resounding amens, most people never find their truth, probably because they’re yet to tell the the truth to themselves. Schade
A flame has no shadow, just like the blurred line between existency and spirituality. You may stand next to it, observing, imitating, fusing with it until you understand the cast that scatters your soul.
Eggshell, bland and typical, your charm is able to discern. Your palms are empty but you conjure up extra smoke and mirrors till your bones start to grit and quake. If you’re lucky, someone calls out with you behind their own shadowy mess.
There is a language I write, from an unorthodox and extinct book it is. Some say it is the language of the dead, others call it the language with no name. Everything I write about you, is what I see looking in the mirror, but the reflection I admire is in the way of my expressive hands.