Wreckage

This is how you bend a path,
first it will decay from absence
from the touch of our lips
from the breaking of its heartbeats.
There will be nemesis in linens
tied to vulgar taste of mornings.
There will be sour cries
then the color of smoke in your eyes.
Everything will pause its end
the beginning will no longer count.
Here’s how you know it’s all gone
when you wake in silence
and your princesses are with no crowns.
Look into your palms
and call the maker by his name.
He knows this pain, and of course he’s sane
but are you?

Ruddapoet