I had a dream you died

saw it as clear as a summer day

i couldn’t cry

not even had i tried

you died

and no one remembered you

not even the mice

that have lived in your kitchen cabinets

these last four years

i heard somewhere in the country

someone had a party

somebody told the news

someone remembered a loved one

that had known you

or about you

nobody loved you

nobody cried.

Letter to nobody -{renata ferretti}

I want to tell you that it tasted disgusting

That it tasted Vile

Like Pain,

Like Loss

Like Torment.

I want to say that I gagged on its burn

Choked on its smell

Broke in half from the painful electricity of it all.

But it didn’t taste like anything.

It didn’t smell like anything.

It didn’t feel like anything.

When she died,

I felt one thing

and I felt it as strong as I’ve ever felt anything.

Maybe even stronger.

I felt

Nothing.

The Nothing I felt was a Smog,

thick

grey

-suffocating.

I’d never felt Nothing before.

It felt empty.

And hollow.

And grey.

All the taste,

the smell

the color

was sucked from the air around me

and I couldn’t get it back.

I couldn’t feel, taste, or smell even the worst of colors.

All I felt was Nothing. Only the grey- only the absence of color in my mind, in my world, in my eyes,

I felt Nothing.

It didn’t even hurt

And that hurt most of all.

into those woods, where branches

will intertwine with teeth and

tongue and limb and fingers

where i will become the dirt,

the grass, the roots and remains

into those cavernous welcoming

arms - to be held and seen and

remembered until i'm forgotten

underneath it all, the earth,

flesh melting from bone to

create the ground for you

into those woods, where the

stone will whisper my name

until it sounds like wind

whipping against your ears

into those woods, and below,

where i will become the dirt,

the grass, the roots and remains

Some say fall is the season of death

When decaying leaves fashion trees into skeletons

And seemingly endless summer nights

Are brought to their knees by a cool breeze

And just a little bit of twilight

But I never feel more alive than I do in autumn

Crimson and gold foliage like flames

I rise from their ash and am created anew

The crisp air caresses my fingers

Nudging them to curl around a ballpoint pen

And press against the page

Like smooth honey drizzled on bread

I hunger for it

Some say fall is the season of death

Of ghost stories and the macabre

But every spirit that roams betwixt cemetery gates

Gives hope that there is more to this world

Than flesh and bones

The leaves fall only to grow again.

Pallid black air,

burnt, smoldering dust,

thick, putrid water,

and dogs wandering with no eyes.

Rats, starving in the dark underworld;

radio stations silent,

the White House empty of commanding voices;

homes silent, filled with the dead,

and the world cannot scream for mercy.

Peace at last.

It comes,

It goes.

Everyone experiences it,

And no one can run from it.

It's what makes our lives beautiful,

What gives it meaning.

Without it,

What comes of us?

Where would we go?

Who would we see?

What takes us, if not it?

It's a mystery,

And yet it's the most known thing in the world.

We die,

And death doesn't stop coming or going.

It's lingering around, waiting,

For our time.

Because it comes,

And it goes.

Alarming clock

ticking on wall,

thinking of ways

to kill us all,

sharpening hands

and honing minutes.

Every second counts

as it lays its plan,

circling around

to entrap your soul.

Just when you think

you’re safe

to come out of

your chair,

scrambling

to safe haven,

hands reach out

around your neck.

Tick tock -

you’re dead!

Moments of time

have absconded,

screams fade,

as clock

tick tocks.

I

Crimson hands

Cold stone

Glazed eyes

A kiss goodbye

He watched

As life fled

A final breath

All agony is dead

He rose again

Ashes burning

A silent vow

To never look back

A new man,

From the corpse

Now rotting in a grave

Locked inside his mind

When the next

Murder shall rise,

He shall cleanse

Himself once more.

II

Do you remember when

You were innocent,

Oh, so innocent.

Crying at the death of a goldfish?

Do you remember when

Life was fun,

Oh, so fun

Running for hours, barefoot in the grass?

Do you remember when

The world was small,

Oh, so small

Wondering what would become of it?

Do you remember when

You were loved,

Oh, so loved

Before you realized those gestures did not mean love?

Do you remember when

The flowers wilted

The fun had stopped,

And the world became cold and devoid of love?

I do.

III

I see your smile,

Masking the pain;

I wonder to myself

will you ever be the same?

I know,

I cannot bring you the sunshine

I know,

Someone hurt you, broke you, scarred you.

But would you believe in love?

I know,

You're a star, crashing to the earth.

I know,

You're the sun, burning herself to nothing for others.

I know,

You're tired and scared and lost and hopeless.

I know,

I see it in your eyes.

I know,

I see it behind those long sleeves you wear.

I know,

I see it in that final breath you took.

But do you know?

Do you know,

Someone prayed for hours every night for you?

Do you know,

Someone cried to sleep when they lost you?

Do you know,

No one's life will be the same without you?

Do you know,

You were deeply loved from a distance?

Do you know,

How missed you are since you left us?

I know,

Now, you are someone's guardian angel,

Shielding them from the same darkness that took you away.

I know,

Because I feel you every time I touch that blade.

You think that you have to suffer in silence.

So you begging the slow descent to death, burning for a world that will never see you,

because you did not let yourself be seen.

That this makes your pain more acceptable. When in fact your pain has morphed into a forgotten act. Because what’s the point in burning just to burn?

Nothing.

You cannot burn and expect your pain to blossom into something more after you’re gone.

All you will leave is wreckage.

Your loved ones, wasted fire fighters who would’ve killed to have doused your flames, if only a moment.

instead they roam the night looking for your fire-the one that destroyed you. Trying to find the smoke curling from your toes.

Remember this when you speak to yourself at night, and the flames tickle your mind with words of hopelessness and despair.

Tempting your mind to insanity - believing that your burning is not worth putting out, or worse, that your pain is burdensome, so you condemn yourself to suffer silently.

There is no poetry in the death of something so senseless.

There is only the resounding truth, that the one who used to burn has been extinguished by their own flame.