dreams have dried up
souls now wither away
unable to match the times
where flowers can no longer exist
in a century where
kindness remains buried
unable to hold on to the night
and its dystopian chills
our voices have dried up
in a battle of weightless words
against the clashing of metals
and releasing triggers penetrate
into every second of our memories
turning all those years lived
into a singular moment frozen in history
august burns in july's rage while
capturing traumas into a film of rainbows
that taint sepia toned polaroids
unto a corroded masterpiece
that maybe Picasso would have forged
had he known its canvas is made of souls
and its paint is simply tears
drained into a landscape of the north pole
when october loses september
and its red spider lilies in full bloom, splitting
through the bedrock of broken hearts
and a carnage stained with petunias
upon fallen white flags of defected bloodhounds
in the silence that echoes
through a delayed backdrop of white noise
we realize how a ray of sun is all we need
to feel like we can still breathe
to that we too, someday, had lived.
image doesn't belong to me
![oubaitori-[BC]](https://image.staticox.com/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fpm1.aminoapps.vertvonline.info%2F8733%2F5c55a4f819fe4b6d69fe794b9d1f6455d422d67dr1-800-1422v2_hq.jpg)
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