When the ostentatious of austerity appears to be blinded by muddied mortality then we'll know. Then we'll go- when our chests close: on our souls, on our lungs, on our ribs, on our tongues, collapsing onto the songs we sung. The sun will extinguish
covered in foam. The stars gave us wishes and twinkled and shone. Now they wink in their guise like galactic spies knowing secrets of our suns that die. Our veins will touch from wrists intertwined. Hands held so deep; a soulish type vine. Our eyes will be coals, and our hair will be thorns. Stabbing and jabbing and poking with scorn. Scalpless and hurting we'll run to the womb. But now that we're older there won't be much room. Our hearts will beat in time with this war. If only we'd practiced this music before. It will be so dark there will be such fright But in the next moment an insatiable light.
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