Fading photographs

Surreal sonnets found their way into the cavern of emptiness, Scrolling through rusting rhymes and concrete couplets, All in a chaotic cadence of crème de la crème. This hard-held heart barely softened for the colors in the fading photographs. What can the mere past do to these strings of stones, When the dents from adrenaline-filled butterflies Remain as few frozen water droplets, Resting on an ocean-wide dinner table, Questioning what lives and what wilts? Have these hands abandoned the will to hold the moon? For the absurd symphonies your worn-out wounds sing Do not touch the skin of my ears. Naive senses were the first silk to pay for lost love. Delusions are funny when they play, Crystal ball showing doves, Promising everlasting angelic bells from above. What difference does it make When words can only be breathtaking as they float, Without a beat, without bones? The malicious necessity behind a heathen and it’s horns, Making pouring Polaroids out of dreams and thorns. For beyond a portrait of murky eclipses, there is nothing more, Just ravenous ravens and stale blue shores.