Bitter forces capture breathless oxygen, exhilarated clinging of everything that must be missing, never attained.
Falling down, away, like rain on a potentially pleasant afternoon
The tides of pulsing daggers mix in the emotionless sea
She does not care what becomes of you
Only you may
Idiots, all of us, or so we could finally claim. Well, maybe someone else shall, for us, it’s hard wrestling the deranged before giants.
Wasted and forever tarnished the seeds of a generation without much to say, few ways to mean it, and less still to be heard.
We don’t want to hear about corruption and greed today, my darling just got a promotion. Can we schedule you for next year, or at least til we can touch the tipping point?
Wish the problems away, the straining solutions and rocky caverns came forth, out of the frost, and burn of ice in my palm, knuckles grinding against the pavement, face aglow in the moon, staring for answers—But the moon had bigger eyes that night
—established in a convincing haste, only to crumble upon constancy, which can’t be ruffled.
Ask later when you try to bring it back. And that perpetual smile said, “at least you asked”.
–Art by Milan Vopálenský & Esmahan Özkan