Train of Thought

Thirty two flowers on my windowsills are
Gazing through my solitary Auschwitz.
(The dying stars are still following me down).
And our nebula filled eyes are crushing into bits and pieces of lifelong floating gig.

I don't want to be a hero,
I just want to be irrelevant me.
I am numb to their fears,
I can only feel their agony.

The wits, the wits of the horned flowers,
And all of their misery.
They are battling me down, down, down to the rigid bones of the floored sunshine.

The little child behind me,
Is smiling in his lucidity.
I was known as the undeniably broken, the suffocation of the unbroken.

The polarity of the windshield was the only measurement of their temporal moment.
The moment was zero, blistering the Jupiter's gravity.

He spoke as if he was a god, and the god was freed.
Freed as a butterfly, and his wings elaborated.

It was a red, red, and tragic cultural eve.
I was frozen in my own temple in top of my denying cliff.
The eve was gushing in brutality, and crushed momentum of sanity.

Drown the philosophies, sail the books of thoughts, and trained skills of theosophy.
Sit down, sit down near the river.
As the water decided to stream down to the shorelines of tomorrow's steam.

Close the eyes, close, close the senses.
Slowly, and let the moment speaks by its own feasts, and frowned forces.