it's so late i could die in my sleep and not care

there is a whisper

in the folds of the silence

that permeates every crease of

this little, lonely room;

i never intended it to break so badly

that it'd be broken forever

but i suppose that's the nature of

little, lonely things

all false things must perish

so someday i, too, will be finished

is that someone singing

in that other room there?

or is it the howling tides of desperate souls,

the bashing of the wind against my skin

as thin and punctured as it's ever been?

perhaps this is a song i could learn to skip

to; 

for you, for us, for lessons unlearned

by memory's cheap daze;

for what gods have put me here

to suffer

and cist

like a

cist

what fools have thought

that i could sleep tonight

all false things must perish

so eventually this dream, too, may finish