bloom and grow.

I'm in the space where words have no meaning
lips are moving but the air in this vacuum is tight and unbreathable
The tiny particles lay dormant and dead
like some long forgotten possum squirrel baby kitty cat
a stain of purple fur on the asphalt outside of your window.

And isn't it sad that once someone used to call you by name
a name, now, so far removed from your eyes that you've forgotten what it looks like.
Every now and then you hear it, almost like a dream
and it taps wiry fingers against your skull and hums something like insects
It's familiar deja vu and it burns and burns and burns.

Your own face like something from a movie. Clips are running by like a marathon a triathalon something wet and burning lactic
There are little stingings to remind you that you are alive
(However this reality may strike you)
It is mostly moot. Second only to the morning news
of bombs in the middle east and finding the right eye of a man you've never met, but he knows you and knows you.

The finality of death is hardly so final as it pushes against everything around it.
So selfish and tired it stretches and sneezes and reminds you to close the windows at night.
You're high, so high up and looking out over redorangeyellow trees and wishing they were green again
Things were so much simpler then.
Green space, less suffocating, green and safe.

And night is something of treacherous wanderings over wet grass to it alone by a light that smells of sulfur.
Something sad is peeling at your ear and you can hear it faintly as it falls away.
Something about fear and courage and how neither are ever truly related.
Sound waves are fighting and tearing at the vacuum's thick skin
but you know the ending now, as you've known it before.

This is a simple moment of human nature vanity simple breathing moment.
It is one two three hours from the rest of your life, but you make it last and stretch its tired bones.
They separate and cease to creak in their old age.
Well-worn, a sickly sight.
But you welcome them from your place in the room on the bed in the corner holding your sheets to your skin.

They're calling some noise and you wish you could answer
"It's my name. Yes, that's me. They've come and they're calling after all."
And it's smiling and brief acceptance and green green cheeks
rubbing your faith in mankind like a warm pressing pad.
All corners of your mind are flashing blood red warnings but you look on in amazement that no one has ever questioned or doubted or wondered or dreamt or thought or loved or breathed or read this second anywhere else.
It's a stain of purple on the asphalt beneath your feet.

My God, what does this mean?