Inside

Like a memory that always

Comes with a photograph,

Fleeting as snow or

Enough to drown in a sea of nostalgia,

You're a probability,

Pregnant with erratic senses

That oscillate between 

Realms of pointlessness

And worth.

No, I don't want to know

If the climax of the story

Lies in gray or purple.

Yes,I want to know

If the climax of the story

Lies in gray or purple.

The spider in my brain

Keeps secrets from me.

I try and train the eight legs.

But there's always one 

That slips out when I hold down the other seven.

I split into two halves constantly,

While the spider cackles and scurries around.

A child and an undertaker

Cross paths.

When I come to the surface gasping for breath

Senses will fade, maybe you will too.