The Last Hyper-Giant

In a roundabout way, this poem's about love; in another, truer way, it's about loss - giving up what you care for.

I’ll hold your memory close, ‘cause you were my Heaven passed the end.
I know you didn’t love me, but couldn’t you pretend?
As the universe becomes diseased, the last broken sword will bend,
and, for now, I guess you can run free…

…from your and my tyranny.

From the mirror’s face, from tears falling without grace, nor place.
Guiding eyes into the steep divide,
because this is the last moment you'll be seen alive.

Hearing hearts sing, tearing apart everything,
gods cry for slumber and you sit there, thumb up your a*s,
reviling him and sipping from your chardonnay glass.

Well, no more will he be your fool, for the ice in the mine’s veins ne’er cools.
Carving a white hot folded blade,
as she travels from glade, to glade, to glade.

Oh, my, the dogs of war can hear the man-wolves bay, and see your world while it falls and falls away.
Dragons don’t enjoy being made fools during blackest night,
nor do they during brightest day, when the last hyper-giant, out of sight, fades, while her hearts crumble and fray.

He is strong, and he has wit; no longer will he suffer the cow’s s**t,
‘cause this, this is just the primary tertiary event.

I implore you: come see the show �" it’s located in the main tent.

In there, in that striped little world none call home, blood may boil and shatter bone.
Sometimes, dragons can taste colors while in there,
laughing loudly, maniacally, going, in particular, nowhere.

Oh, sure, you say, “Bring me to life,” but what you really mean is “Impale me with your knife.”
Love, this dragon can’t bless your quest, for, throughout your breast, lives the insects’ nest.
If you die, where would they live? Who’s life would they take to give?

Who would be the offering? Certainly, that’ll ne’er be me…
Your job is not mine to bear, suffering; unlike you, I will fore’er be free.