We Obsidian Tragedy

the last of you stains the air.
smeared careless and colorless.
left withered and heaving.
flavored gifts of you on the floor.

the fairytale failing,
red and lacqured and entombed.
a lifeless ornament of our abandoned holiday,
where wounds were celebrated with a kiss.


oiled and perfumed of dying dreams,
dangling stiff and bitter from
places we will never go and,
stuffed songless into the tiniest grave.


we obsidian tragedy,
hardened and smoothed by remorse.
sick with error,
slick as wonder.

to concieve
a misconception.
produce a mistake.
to misunderstand and become,
undone, miscarried.

to misdirect and mislead.

to spin bright lies with,
your real blood,
your beautiful flesh,
from the rest of our lives.

mistakes live as kings here,
as our giants and heroes.

missing you now as always,
or mistaking you still for always,
maybe what was always missing,
was never you at all.

just me now as always,
always missing something,
for a while it will be you,
my giant, my hero and king.