from the perspective of an poet caught up in the branches of their own philosophy - Untitled Sulfur lights the damp blue sky these cities are not made for you they are buildings for the unfed life for the poorly led and a shelter to those not here we cry for the ones not here a small and lonely shadow cast by those who climb on unending towers torn and shattered, for rain has finally fallen on a cold and sobering reminder that seasons change - Poetry is for the tired and weary the words stretching thin as to be transparent a feeling we whisper them then and now to read it is lonely it does not give us rest yet it is there written with bleary eyes in which no writing will give them sleep is it to empty our minds spill thoughts onto paper and silica maybe or it is just to read a promise to the future to take apart yourself and smile at the things you never saw - Untitled 2 no more of old happy endings not because we can't die happy or die old but because of change we will surely die differently then we wanted in the beginning In the beginning we will cry in the end we should understand