I think about you,
but I also think about a thousand other things,
for you are but a tune,
trying to make a sound,
midst a thousand other symphonies.
I think of how you,
Like agony and anger,
Like thirst and hunger
Like fear, like wars,
Like a bottle of poison
And a loaded pistol in the hand of a child,
Like an insomniac thought on the back of one's mind,
Like a roaring storm on the far horizon,
Are incessant.
You were chaotic,
Thus, You were beautiful,
But only when alone,
Since,
In the orchestra of the brain
And the audience of the night,
You are an absolute wrong,
that once seemed right.
See, I think about you,
like how I think of the story,
Of how you ended up here
Of how "there was a kingdom
Colonized by the rain
Raided by fear,
Inhabited by martyrs
and watered with tears.
And you were its queen:
A fragile monarch,
made of broken old branches
and fallen tree leafs.
Every time the wind whistled,
Breaking a way through the cracks in the glass,
or the gaps between the logs
in a penurious farmer's house
The kingdom trembled with fear
And drowned itself in alarm
For it was always told
that the evil cold wind
will -one day- cause their queen
harm.
But you- the queen never broke
For you- the queen was a dream.
A painting of surrealism
Of a cloud that resided
Neighbors to the moon.
And atop of the cloud
I lived
safe
and sound
Until one day
the wind blew hard enough
To break open the windows
And blow the queen rough,
to cut through her body
with the moon's sharp edge,
Make her bleed her rain,
And storm upon the ground
her tears of agony
and shouts of pain.
Then diminish the Kingdom
into a raindrop,
a single raindrop
that neither fell on the ocean,
Nor on a river to flow,
but on an isolated land,
That consumed it whole
into down below,
the very same ground,
That it was rained upon…
See,
I think about you.
I think of many things.
I think of what you were,
I think of what you've done.
Like,
I think of how you
abandoned your very own masterpiece,
Wrinkled its three messy pages,
And tossed them away
In the lonely basket
...On the lonely corner
.....of your lonely room.
I remember things,
Like how you wrote beautifully,
you beautifully you thought,
I also remember how weak you needed to be
to never write again.
