“Your texture is tear-dried, the color of misery catching the sun. I know if I’m larger than this life there’s no need for the next one.”
You’re kneeling so empty and I’m here to take what’s left. My branches thinning, but growing. Ripping little holes in the skies, in the heavens. I’m piercing purity and letting it mix with my curses and it’s time for you to drink. Your prayers scale my limbs hoping to sneak in, but the weight of your wants always overwhelms those of your needs and you fall like leaves. Leaving is the hardest to do. You were so close yet so charred. The sun catching in your tear-dried texture, accidentally inventing the color of misery in the universe’s memoir. You may scale me, but you’re incapable of knowing my scale. When three become one all goodness is shunned and if I’m larger than this life there’s no need for the next one.
