One moment after another.
Then the rain rises over
A tinted can of lust.
A boy sobbing so deeply
In his shallow grave.
The air no longer a need,
but should have, to decay.
All tares, slightly ripped,
paper thin of
love,
no longer needed,
for the body,
whom he has left.
It's all a soft memory
sprouting in the reflection of
the viewing glass from the brain,
all left behind in to a salty pond,
of what should have been an ocean.
It's all a forgotten love, shaded
haze, and the corps lies there,
with fear of what he has left behind.
Knowing he is not dead,
but six feet under,
buried beneath the time of nothing,
to consume all, but a memory.