death winter scales IM A SNAKE

to my friend will:

it would be easy to talk to you
but your face looks like a monster in my memory
it's not even you
i'm not myself

you're a memory

i wish i could talk to you, but  there is nothing
nothing inside my chest
no fire
no wind
just some coals


there is however something in my belly
that burns blue light

i don't know what it is

and when i open my mouth
i feel inescapable air
throat implodes on itself
i have nothing to say

but i wish we could talk

there would just be nothing to say

because nothing happened
and there is no fertile ground for understanding
when i walk across
it dips into the soil

mellowness

white mallowness

no form

nothing

my breath for you is gone, as if it never was
and winter frozen words

die

perhaps to be reborn in spring

until then
only the slump of a fading sorrow, that screams
NOTHING
at least not enough to breathe

if feelings could speak they'd say nothing
because they are made of nothing
and one cannot hold up something so ethereal
as an invisible FUCK YOU
with no front nor back
no sides
its form conforms to too many thinkings
and loses reality
there are no words

and these swords are made of dreams
so even as they are sinking never appeared
to be
much like this whispy weather anyhow