These are not flotsam and jetsam thoughts,
they do not ebb and flow,
they are as constant
as the stars and the universe,
ex pan ding
like the breath.
Welcoming death takes talent,
best executed with open arms
and a closed mind
and deadened heart
heavy and blackened
in the precipice of one’s chest.
Heights call from the depths;
the shallows ring with their praises
as courage sends bodies to better places.
Take these words as seriously as the sun,
for they burn just as strongly,
and blister just as badly.
Tongues of flame
strike down all tongues,
leaving only ashen architecture behind
with words immortalised in bones.
Burnt flesh is crisp against
a cold soul
Consider this the final warning,
the third strike that shatters hope:
there is no such thing as tomorrow,
only the continuity of flotsam,
and the fluidity of jetsam.
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