Lo and behold, inside of me

in a crooked corner that plays hymns of once spoken words and memories,

there lies a prophecy

Encased in glass to be broken in bed positioned moments of convincing

and to old friends reminiscing

Speak to me the words hidden on your cluttered shelf

The ones that say “It’s hard to think of anything besides all the ways I want to kill myself”

Deliver to me the youthful images that left you sly with a quiver

What makes you read to passerby’s: To upcoming death, a sacrifice, a giver

No linger hide your bones that grow and dance with age and rust

Mend all your parts that have gone back home; returned to dust

In wait for your perish, only in the moments of mourning will you know what to cherish

Do you need death for life to flourish?

Is a waste of life what makes the ache of death nourished?

Bottle your mangled self like a morning’s dew

Drink when you are thirsty for all the half lived moments you thought were true

Love all the parts of people and the world that leave you teetering on motions of heavy and blue

All the parts of a worldly existence that seperates days from happiness like a sadistic glue

In my words that need exorcised for self honesty

Read of my soul’s loneliness and sob monody

You might just begin to understand the teaching of a bone etched prophecy