Founder, I still see your face
at the tipping point of broken grace.
A sanity set apart from delusions,
what have you seen with hallucinations everlasting eyes?
Sweetie, I still see you in a dense fog of Grays,
between the seas that separate us,
you are in my mind.
I hold on to you,
hold out for your fate.
I hope you escape the ideas of interrupted thinking,
and dizzy dreaming of desolate desires.
So what I never told you… I couldn’t,
I can’t,
I won’t,
I never will.
But you have to know you’re a fallen card house,
scattered about the empty attic of a place
I used to call home.
I had no choice but to leave you floored beyond the fall.
Spread about my instinct was a simple cry for your safety.
Then you hit me as the worst sort of epiphany.
How can I help you? I can’t.
What can I say? Nothing.
You’re out of touch.
Founder, we’ve become cold and disconnected,
depleted and drained.
Left with the silence of sweet memories,
bitter notions of what occurred.
Endless questions, unanswered.
My expectations- overcast,
but looming above London’s fog is the sunlight,
I realize may never
