The joy of falling
obliterated by impact.
Time condensed to a foam
only industry abides.
The cat engulfed by a nightmare,
converting sunlight into something darker,
that ancestral dementia
talked over since childhood.
The flowers blossom into flames. Listen:
There will never be enough.
Even if you cry from your pointillist breast
a legacy of hot bruises
all the major keys
in your minor works
will fall to the floor and scatter.
All the money is gone.
Luna Adriana (via mariannapaige)