One more tongue to impress

as they feed you the lies, epic and explosive

this masterpiece holds no fear in a novelist's illusion

a perfect conclusion that brought them here,

a tongue to impress, simple as the darkness,

but without the uhholiness that is fed through our ears,

pulling a string and tangled in webs like yesterday's dismembered conclusions,

a sigh, this is a waste, and we worry how a year from now

we'll still be crawling through these showers of weakness,

standing there and watching that faded breath in winter's silence,

a drowned symbol of life is what we'll carry next,

a crest

of all these thoughts that could be made better,

awareness of the emptiness,

why do we always see it black as death?

When death is a nothing to be considered.

Hot breath, and eye contact, skin that tingles with remorse,

and force,

a cry for our sanity escapes our lips,

and there's another failed lie, and a tongue to impress,

an ear to caress,

their laughter, really, a sound worth dying for?

But death has nothing to do with this.

A mark of another, a lover, a failure

this impression of each other, and it's inaccurate

to account for ourselves which we cannot find,

lost and impossible,

in time, we'll all die.