Floors of Heaven
An irrelevant witness upon a great tide of time A tide upon which I too shall be extinguished Surging ever forward, gruesomely poetical The hands are still - it's the world that's shaking Cutting off my fingers, one by one There are no answers in this tempest There is no closure in death
Submitted by Pestilence — Jun 03, 2026
Seemingly silent and still, nightfall tightens the tourniquet of concern even further Squeezing thoughts into choices measured on my three-fingered hand My heart doesn't beat like before, crooked and cuffed to the floor Forget everything and remember: As another passing phase on the way to the grave visions start to skew and life will always provide one last chance to get it all wrong
Submitted by Pestilence — Jun 03, 2026