Life by itself, is dead.

a long night, filled with smoke,

a fall into the memory well,

mean struggle, no rope.

drenched in moments happy and sad,

moments filled with love,

rotting love smelling bad;

fumes of who you've been,

whom you've become,

escaping a corpse, your life, dead.

your life, a lost cause, a failed attempt,

to build a stable mind, a complete song,

an undefeated emotional palace;

to speak your strength with your eyes,

the battles won, veiled in phrases;

to stand eternal, still and concrete,

carrying the whole world's weight.

but the moment arrives,

the last two cards are placed

and you just fucking fall, every fucking time, in your own fucking face.

castle to debris, structured to mess,

attempted and lost, resurrected and dead.

Nothing stands, nothing holds their place,

love dipped in apathy, complaints filling hollow faith.

Then fallen in the well, drenched in memories,

drowned in loath,

a hollow stone now floats the surface, dead.

a hollow stone sitting next to this

river of a life, watching it flow.

dreaming its own magical vibe,

slowly pushed into it

by talks-carrying hustling winds,

and the chaotic movement of concerned feets,

whoosh, step, step and fuck it, a leap.

submitted, to the river,

its current taking the lead.

finally mobile, still hollow inside.

crashing and crashing again, and again,

against a bottom of rocks, real and filled.

a dead hollow rock before, still and delicate as a leaf,

now ground to tiny little particles, broken but finally filled, finally complete;

first, dissolves into the river,

and then becomes the whole of it.

and just flows.

a river, filled with life,

never ceasing to flow.

thousands of fishes swimming inside:

fins of memories, flesh of stories,

bones of hope, gills of faith, life.

millions of short plants swaying a wave,

long roots of understanding, strong stem of sympathy, happiness filled leaves, life.

yet, completely, absolutely and eternally

dead in itself, by itself.

flowing as if not in control,

without a consciousness of its own.

now ceased, filling the broken pot,

of that beautiful soul,

taking its shape,

then, her mouth's and then her throat;

finally, gulped down, inside her,

completely spread throughout her veins,

to finally be herself, taking her shape,

making itself her own.

filtering all her toxic waste,

sweating a bit, rushing towards the great escape.

her, filtered; it, fouled, calm and collected,

excreted with force,

finally back to the river, finally back home,

to flow, shapeless, fate-less, lifeless, once again.

A long night, filled with smoke,

the guy falling into the well, drenched and dead, floating like a hollow stone,

the hollow stone at rest, pushed and broken into the river, flowing as it own,

the river taking her shape, filtering her and returning home,

A long, still, dead night, filled with life;

me.