"nothing is beautiful. nothing is funny," is what
i've been told by those who say that soon there will be no place
soft to lay, and that the dead silence will make me too nervous
to sleep anyway - these people tried to dam life's river.

they took all the honey and glass in the world and hid it
in dark rooms with cement walls away from beloved light -
they bit what they should have kissed and booed and hissed to drown out
any joyful noise that they were too small to stop with their fists.

our two souls struck them when they thought they were safest - struck them
like autumn strikes the dull wet green reign of summer; our love -
flashing, crackling, exploding reds and oranges - their deaths.

our two souls stopped their rambling then and stayed together in bed
wondering at what everything gone had left behind - if it
didn't all belong to us, we at least held it in our hands.

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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