My mortality's now fragile as truth;
like flowers laid by pretenders
on graves of future's written chapters,
where my sunlight's ceasing embers;
but deplored discoloration
of frozen petals, slowly breaking
to fragments powdered by present's rush
of gray tomorrow's minded aching;
where shall shining then live;
without mirrors for life reflection,
nothing strangely welcomed dawning
without terrors for guilt attention;
wherever perhaps, if living allows,
whenever promises do never foster,
like poison angels of evil wisdom--
my dear mortality's living monster;
yet, today could rain my fears;
today could rain my thunder tremors
and flood my wishes off away
to ocean's boundless mental terrors;
shall living entice survival;
enough for dreaming death forever
before today could blossom warnings
into horrors blurred as nevers;
oh pity, little bitter boy,
shan't these punches push you forth
never had stepping staircase did
before your falling seeks your sort;
but what's after losing breath;
what heading present had wanted;
when today's merely my past's
tommorow;
solely ending what future started.
