growth / decay
hourglass of my dreams;
infestation and vineyard mysteries
perhaps, if presumptuousness was an illness,
my brain would have collapsed
from faux philosophies
being naive was irreparably lovely,
ceaseless nightmares of burning
civilizations on the precipice of nostalgia,
how lamentable being a little older truly was,
how rotten the corpse of a soul tainted
with poignant mouth-foaming delirium
how, when the moonlight cried itself to sleep,
i had no sorrow
caving into my chest