Son Of Cerberus

All I can do is function. Work. Tell stupid jokes. Keep moving forward. Pretend time is linear.

For every peaceful moment,

A tear to shed

For every gifted smile,

A drop of blood

The unshakable feeling

that everything is wrong -

misconfigured, malformed,

riven and reft -

that we somehow lost our way

or had it torn from our hands,

the remnants of what

we used to be, haunting us

in echos and reflections,

crows in a row in the cool gentle nurturing shadow of swaying chestnut trees,

sunlight swords pierce the bower beneath a sky of borrowed time

painting golden butterflies

across our cheeks and hair as voices

drift and overlap: the chirruping of

fairweather friends as we toss exhumed

memories and buried dreams

by your ego, ergo you think

you are

simply because that's what

Is the story of everyone else,

The accompanying photo:

"It's in my hair, in my sleep

In my hands, in my teeth

It's in my chair, it looks like me

Is it hot in here or is that just thermodynamics?

His name is Midnight

and hers is Dawn

Together they are drawn

Down in the shadows and the torment and the agony of time

They dance with limbs of light and dark entwined

To summon all mortals in decline

He strokes her hair with obsidian fingertips

and she burns into him with crimson lips

Betwixt moonset and sunrise