the slow art of breathing bitter

Catastrophe

The stars are burning in the constellation,

The sun's falling in the dead of the black sea,

The flowers are rotting away in the soft veins of the earth.

Everything's in a hyped, blood-stained, explosive

BURN, BURN, BURN.

Her flesh's pale blue in the poison of cataclysm,

Her life's so void in grey hurricanes and black tornadoes,

Their love's dead in the molten wax of the last candle.

Everything around them fades, rips in an aching doom.

DEATH, DEATH, DEATH.

And she's stuck somewhere in the middle

of her favorite, worn-out book.

Asphalt tastes bitter on her tongue,

where all those memories fall and rise from.

Her earth enfolds in her rotten flesh till

everything she's been holding onto disappears.

Sometimes, living's a lie, and memories are an illusion;

all she can see is black fog and blood.

But she's learned to survive the catastrophe,

even though she's rotten away—

without even surviving.

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A/N: Uh-oh. Life's way too chaotic for her. Vote, please??