Diversity At It's Worst

You cannot listen.
Yet, you do. It is a temperature of
not getting exactly through.
Certainly,
you cannot hear.
Yet, you do. Without a degree of
crying, it is not a towering sympathy to me.
Nor will you speak,
of such tragedies, meanwhile,
you scream in rambles that are broken and invalid.
Greatly,
nor will you tell,
dare would you dream idly in unspoken words
of biting memories you cannot seem to remember.

To recognize and observe, incapable it is.
To uphold victorious and daftness in defeat, incapable it is.
Laughing and blossoming, sighing, and silently
you are pointlessly drifting in the eternity of vanity.

Let it eat you while you stare gushingly into,
into another's eyes, till you realize,
then you are no long there.
You are no longer there, now.

Surely, it was not your ego.
I would assume nothing more.
It belonged to me, a possession of passion,
a possession of the gift I gave to you.
Dissipates before hand, fuels the moonlight on the empty land.
I'm beckoning, to just let me be.

And somewhere along this
drifting and struggling line.
Remained some words, that you took apart,
letter by letter.
It was nonetheless, a process of my home,
a process of the sickness in the room.
And there, you shattered it,
as if to say,
it was no longer you.