Informal Curtains

Sometimes we die before our death Merely existing as shells with our souls six feet Blossoming roses with pedals that stink of death Wishing every exhale could our last God knows we having a blast Slow dancing to crooked notes that tell stories of whats behind the smile Our joy is fabricated with rusted steel and a golden platting Slowly wearing off with every attempt to out shine our solid gold tombstones I am not alive But a fetus neck decorated with by the umbilical cord Feeding me maturity so eventually it could strangle me Dying of day dreams in my room Blood stains on a canvas painted with silence Sirens ushered to a demolished character Conversations with the emptiness between cages once haunted by a beating existence Ancient carvings on my skin understood only by souls that once danced with demons tattooed with their heavenly fall Blades on my wrist trying to revive Pharaohs buried in my fleshy Pyramid killed by reality I think dead dreams are the best measure of human mortality