love doesnt live here anymore.

It stuck to your heel as i watched it follow you through the door.


i dont feel alone. your ghost is still here. your memory is still here. your name is on the walls and in my skin.


orchestras played by thunder and static, everything is an emotionless monochromatic.


the last living resident passed long ago before the century turned.

his last moments he tossed, turned. screamed. burned. 


Windows to and old white house. 

now jagged doorways to an unholy cell.

On the floor sits a crucifix carved into a knife. 

Next to a pretty white blouse. 

a damp and abandoned existential hell.


have you ever reached into a mirror and feared you wouldnt want to leave?

are you addicted to the way your blood tasted

are you scared of what your mind can percieve?

do you fear what you've wasted?


charred remains of memories once held dear

dancing away in the wind 

sprinkled into the atmoshpere.


i have existed before time, 

waiting here. it is my weapon.

my tool. my sin. my rule. 

roaming this desolate graveyard.

its king, its guard.

plagued with death. the air filled with blood and chlorine. 

ashes and kerosene.


This place i describe to you, this poem scratched into its walls, a dead monochromatic, a dark room, its only entrance is an attack on my sanity, my own dysphoric reflection. his eyes a portal to a vacant temple of stone. 

this place is called the static.